


Lemonade

by ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Leverage, The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sex, Tumblr Prompt, honestly tumblr is filthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 00:51:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 22,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14842460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild/pseuds/ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild
Summary: Fluff, smut, hurt/comfort. A little sweet, a little sour, lots of lemons. Prompt fills on Tumblr.





	1. Rated E: Bed Sheets & Cuddles (Sam Wilson/Maria Hill)

 “You’re going to spoil me.” 

A scrape of teeth along her inner thigh is Sam Wilson’s only response, something that draws her hips up, like an archer draws his bow. His thick forearm presses her back into the mattress, mouth still working sensitive flesh, while her fists close around a wad of cotton. If left up to Maria Hill, he may not have bed-sheets come morning, but the warm moans and dark groans that roll through her make it worth it. 

“Good,” a hard rub through the lace of her underwear, and she’s coming up off of the bed again, with a whimper. “Means I won’t have competition.” 

“Never thought you were the jealous type.” Maria’s light tease drops off into an higher pitched whine when he pulls away, when his fingers no longer offer the friction she needs. 

Sam just laughs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her underwear, and practically tearing them down her legs. “I’m a lot of things, Maria.” two fingers sink into her while his thumb works her bundle of nerves. “You still wanna talk?” 

Maria can only offer a moan. 

“I don’t share,” a slow,  _brutal_ pace, fingers working her just enough to tease. “I was an only child.” 

God, his voice. 

How had she never noticed it? How deep it gets when he’s turned on, a low burn that splinters down her spine. The roughness of it, wolfish, daring defiance of any sort. Not that she was in much of a position to defy him, what with how he has her pressed into the bed with one arm while his fingers slip steadily but slowly in and out of her dripping core. 

“I’ve seen you on those intel extractions,” Sam’s just barely touching her, now, just scraping the pads of his fingers along her entrance. “Those tiny dresses. Don’t know how you do anything and stay,” a rough jab puts him knuckle deep inside of her, again. “decent.” 

“Tape!”

His broad shoulders shudder with laughter, eyes still dark with arousal but sparking with mischief. He likes this game. Touching her, talking to her, watching her get comfortable with a state of ecstasy just before he pulls her up higher, shattering the illusion that the absolute height of bliss had been achieved. 

“Still,” Sam drives her almost to the point of begging, leaves her unsure how much more she can take. It’s so rough and hard and  _deep._ None of her previous partners had ever been able to do this with just a hand, with two fingers, and a bit of pressure in the right spot. “I get a little jealous when I see you enticing them for information.” 

“You shouldn’t worry, Sam.” Maria breathes, gripping his sheets a little tighter when he twists his fingers just a little, scraping the silken heat surrounding them. “Shit!” 

“Can’t help what you feel, Agent.” Sam teases, extracting his fingers from her. “You should know that.” 

Her body is tingling, hips stuttering hotly against cotton sheets, waiting to be taken over that edge into a euphoric abyss. He watches her for a moment while he takes his own underwear off and rolls a condom on. Large hands still her hips and it takes everything in her not to let her orgasm claim her when he presses into her one  _infuriating_ inch at a time, until he’s buried completely. 

Neither are sure what flies out of their mouths but it’s crude and probably x-rated. 

God, he feels good; heavy and thick and filling her completely. And, he appears to be having another religious experience, surrounded by a tight wetness that clenches oh so perfectly around him. The pace isn’t quite as brutal and punishing as before but no less intense. Her nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent scream, while his own mouth lavishes each breast with delectable attention, matching each snap of his hips.

For such calm and collected individuals, they’re both of a bit of a mess when faced with the peak of their own pleasure. The warm moans, surprised gasps, and gorgeous groans from her have become an unintelligible mess of sound. And, his low, rough growl of before is something more akin to a whine, relief andsomething that just feels so  _damn_ good exploding down his spine. 

“Oh God.” a barely audible squeak, when she’s finally coming back down from her high. “You’ve definitely ruined me to anyone else!”

Sam just grunts, collapsing next to her, his own climax still waning. Despite them both being sweaty and exhausted and in need of a shower, Maria still grabs the edge of the cotton sheet, pulls it up over both of them, and burrows against Sam’s chest, willing to let sleep take hold. 

… 

She wakes to Sam’s hand in her hair and his mouth on her face, gentle circles on her scalp and tender kisses on whatever part of her he can reach. His other arm is pinned beneath her body, probably numb, hand splayed on her back. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles against her hairline, when she stirs in his arms, alerting him to return to consciousness. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“It’s okay.” Maria yawns, tilting her head back to look at him. “What time is it?” 

The digital clock over her shoulder blinks a reminder of their need to be up for work in about twenty minutes. “Not quite six.” he finally answers her question. “We’ve still got about twenty minutes.” 

Twenty minutes. 

To lay wrapped snugly in Sam, to feel his body heat and his strength pressing into her. To lay between the sheets and let herself be vulnerable and just loved in a way she’s never been before. Twenty minutes to just  _be. Yes._ She wants it, craves it, even, and it is what makes her relinquish her control to Sam. 

“Think we could just stay like this, then?” in great contrast to her usual stoicism, Sam is surprised to see Maria surrendering to his hold, snuggling deeper, grasping at every single second of the few minutes they have before work calls. 

“I think we can stay however you want.” 

Oh yeah. 

Definitely spoiling her. 

 

 


	2. Rated T+: Frosting (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

“Are you eating frosting straight from the jar?”

And, oh, how he wishes he had one of those cameras with the huge flash bulbs to capture this straight from black-and-white cinema moment, when the criminal is caught committing a crime and looks up with wide, guilty eyes. Much like the way Cassie looks now - frosting jar on her crossed ankles, spoon frozen in mid-air, mouth open, and eyes wide with guilt.

“I, uh, well, I was uh….” fumbling for an answer, she pulls her pretty pink bottom lip between her teeth.

A single black eyebrow arches heavenward and he holds up the plastic bag in his hand, “I brought Chinese but if you’d rather eat sugar…”

Cassie’s face flushes almost the same shade as her hair as she drops the spoon in the jar and sets the frosting on the table. One thing Jake will never understand is Cassie’s child-like fascination with those stupid jars of frosting, from the funfetti to the darkest chocolate available, it seemed like she was forever buying them and he never could get the straight of her godawful indulgence.

“You ever gonna tell me why you like this shit so much?” Jake cringes at the dark frosting staining the plastic jar when he moves it out of the way to make room for containers of actual food - so, Chinese food may not be that much more nutritionally, but it certainly wasn’t sugar in a jar. 

Cassie huffs, snatching up a container of noodles and a pair of chopsticks, in what she hopes is avoidance enough to let him know he won’t be getting anything out of her. Soon enough, she hears his sigh of resignation, and they settle back into the couch to watch TV over vegetable lo-mein and his preferred orange chicken.

“I’m sorry, darlin’.” he finally apologizes, reaching over to brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I don’t mean to pry, you just always seem to be eatin’ the junk, I figure you’re you, there’s a reason for everything.” 

“I just like it, okay?” Cassie mumbles, but her voice is wobbly, watery, and pleading for him to just leave it. 

“Okay.” 

Whatever documentary she had been watching while she indulged her in frosting habit ends and a new one about the pyramids of Giza scrolls through thirty minutes of parchment colors and droning voices. Jake drops his empty container on the coffee table and dips a finger into the jar, scooping up a little bit of frosting, before turning to face her.

The way she’s sitting, with her back to the arm of the couch, allows him easy access to her legs. He tugs her knees apart and shifts in between them, sinking down on top of her, before smearing the chocolate on her exposed collarbone. His mouth covers the frosted skin and she offers him a soft moan in response.

Huh.

Shit’s not half bad, but that’s also probably mostly Cassie, not the chocolate junk in a can. Nevertheless, he continues on, reaching for another scoop of frosting and smearing it on the other side. Cassie’s hips lift off of the couch a little, body adjusting to seek out more of his, wanting the heavy heat of him on top of her.

“Easy, darlin’.” Jake grunts against her chest, sliding down a little lower down her body.

He paints a thick line of chocolate just where her shorts meet her legs, before lowering his mouth to the area and sucking the sugary treat off of her warm skin.

The sticky followed by his warm mouth draws an surprised but pleased gasp from her. He repeats this once more, sliding his other hand under her top, dragging it up her stomach. A smear of chocolate is licked off above the waistband of her tiny shorts before her hands sink into his hair and she’s pulling him up to kiss him.

“What do you think about it, now?” Cassie giggles against his chocolate-flavored mouth. 

“I think I’m gonna owe you some frostin’, baby girl.” 


	3. Rated T+: Feather (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

“Ow!” Jake yelps, “Dammit, Cass!”

In quite the state of disarray, as one might find themselves after a night of more sex than sleep, Cassie emerges from a cocoon of pillows and blankets, hand still balled into a fist, ready to whack him again. Shoving it against her eye, she rubs the sleep away, clearing her blurred vision. “

“Jake?” Cassie’s face scrunches in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Wakin’ you up for work!” he growls, backing a little further away from the bed.

But, that’s not what the faux peacock feather caught in the covers would suggest. Snatching up the white polyester creation before he sees it and tries to cover his ass, she holds up the feather, still attached to a length of black satin ribbon that had formed her headband for her costume during the last clipping.

“Really?” she lets it dangle from one finger. “With this?” 

“Well I was…” Jake fumbles for whatever answer will keep her fists far away from his person. “I was tryin’ to be…I don’t know…sexy or somethin’ but then you had to go and smack the hell out of me!” 

“I’m sorry, I was asleep!” Cassie apologizes, head tilting in confusion. “You shouldn’t do it like that, Jake! There are at least five other ways - six if you do that thing I like with your tongue!” 

Jake chokes.

He knew - purely from the gorgeous sounds she made  _while_ he was doing it - that she thoroughly enjoyed his special  _tongue_ thing, but she’d never been vocal about exactly how much she liked it. Nor, did she ever specifically express her desire to be woken up with his tongue doing  _that._

“I, uh, I didn’t know you wanted to be woken up like that, sweetheart.” his grin is shit-eating, if it’s anything, and his eyes twinkle with equal parts amusement and arousal.

Cassie growls, balling her fists up, and launching herself at him, intent on smacking him, again. But, he catches her around her waist and goes for her neck, biting playfully, and laughing at her failing attempts to pound at his chest with her fists.  “I can’t do that thing you like if you keep hittin’ me, darlin’.”

A deep moan is her only response and Jake makes a mental note to tuck the feather away for later use.


	4. Rated T+: Pajamas (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

Turns out, Cassandra’s pajama shorts aren’t much longer than shorts he’s seen her show up to work in; not that, Jacob is at all surprised, but he does find the fact that they make her legs look endless, enough to, ahem, rev him up. The artist in him is pleased with her whole aesthetic - the shorts made of soft peachy lace, gray t-shirt a few sizes too big with the ripped collar and the exposed shoulder, the messy, towel-dried hair, and the silky skin available for his viewing pleasure.

“Feelin’ better?” but, he can’t ignore the dark bruise that wraps around one of her wrists, nor can he just forget the fact that he put it there. 

Not on purpose, but he had.

It’d been desperation, really. She’d been tumbling over the edge of time - literally, as Jenkins had so plainly stated - and he’d grabbed whatever part of her he could to get her through the back door. In order to combat the rolling current, he’d taken a rather tight grip, and it was only when she’d stumbled through the door and into his arms, that they both realized what’d happened.

“A little.” Cassie shrugs, dropping the towel into the laundry basket to be washed. “Still jittery,” her nerves rattle, stomach twisting uncomfortably, and she slips beneath the covers, and as close to him as possible. “I was scared, Jake.”

“I know.” because, he was scared, too - terrified that she could be ripped away from him, that he’d never see her again, and it is that fear that simmers back to the surface, prompting him to pull her onto his lap. “I’m sorry,” he brings her bruised wrist up to his mouth, kissing the purple skin repeatedly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’d rather be bruised in this timeline, than dead in another.” Cassie snuggles into him, pressing her face into his neck. “Jenkins thought I couldn’t hear him but he told Eve that I would have been dead before you could have found me to bring me back. Apparently,” she shifts closer, sliding her hands under his shirt, needing a sense of something real. “If you die outside of your own timeline, you can’t be found.”

Oh  _God._

The implications - not just her body lost in time, but any evidence of her existence. He can’t imagine life without  _something_ to prove that he’d been forever changed by a beautiful redhead, who could solve complicated math problems, but was still child-like enough to believe in magic and Santa and the tooth fairy. He  _needed_ her. He needs her existence to run parallel to his. He’s used to it, now. She’s a compass. No, she’s not always true north, but the beauty of Cassie was her belief that true north wasn’t always so true and sometimes you had to look in every possible direction to find what was right.

“I don’t - Cass, god…” he breathes, kissing her head. “I don’t wanna lose you.” 

“And, I don’t want to be lost.” she lifts her head from his neck. “I want to be here with you.” 

“I want you here.” tender fingers trail down the side of her face. “I know we’ve had our problems but I almost lost my best friend, today. I don’t know what I’d do without you, anymore, darlin’.”

“Let’s not think about it, then.” she suggests, readjusting so she’s straddling his waist, giving his hips a firm squeeze with her knees. “I don’t want to think about not being here,” Cassie scoops his face up in her hands. “I want to kiss you. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

It’s tentative, as any kiss would be after a day of stress; the hesitance of it’s welcome, the possibility of rejection, of physical affection only being added stress. Lips barely brushing, tongues retreating, until both are sure this is what the other wants. Jacob’s teeth sink into her bottom lip, tasting her, pulling her in deeper and his arms wind around her back, hands under her t-shirt, exploring every inch of bare skin.

Cassie returns it, in kind. Skilled fingers sinking and tugging on his hair until he’s shuddering against her, body trembling, mouth opening in a silent groan that allows her entrance, that lets her catch his bottom lip, and bite down just enough to spill the metal and salt of blood on her tongue, and to draw a whine from him.

It hurts but it’s real.

Perhaps, it’s something born of stress, but it could also be something far more primal, a  _need_ for relief, a need to burn off all the adrenaline, that has her bearing down with her hips until he’s securely nestled right where she needs him most. “Cass,” Jake pulls away, when he feels her moving; pressing and rubbing in all the right ways. “You sure ‘bout this?”

“Please?”

Fresh tears pool in her eyes and leave him unable to deny her what she clearly needs. So, with a nod, he wraps his hands around her hipbones and rolls her hips, watching her mouth drop open in a soft sigh. Her hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in a little more with every rub, every press. It’s anger and desperation and a need for something that doesn’t hurt as much as the thought of what almost happened.

They almost lost each other, today.

And, the thought of it is far more painful than any injury either of them could ever acquire.


	5. Rated GA: Alcohol (Eliot Spencer/Parker)

Alcohol is a slippery slope.

Too little, and you fall short of the desired effect, but too much and the morning after is guaranteed to bring with it, a new demon to battle - the much loathed hangover. Which is how a sober hitter ended up with a very drunk thief burrowing into his pillows, dozing off with a breathy giggle of doing it again.

The same blonde that is currently wrapped around the cold porcelain of his toilet bowl, retching the contents of her stomach therein while he holds what he can of her hair back. Clumps of sweaty hair cling to red cheeks, tears sparkle in her already red eyes from the fright of being sick and the pain of vomiting, and her body weak from the energy expelled.

 _Finally,_ the painful twists of her stomach stop, and she crawls into Eliot’s waiting arms with a miserable groan; “I hate Sophie.”

Eliot sinks a hand into her hair, and wraps his other arm around her, pulling her closer, cooing something into the top of her head as he kisses the tangle of blonde curls there. “You weren’t sayin’ that, last night.”

Parker just grunts, pressing her face into Eliot’s neck.

He’s right.

She was singing a very different tune, the night before, around the rim of some weirdly named drink that was vaguely orange and she claimed tasted like citrus, but Eliot had wondered if it was alcohol at all or just sugar. Despite her willingness to pay for everything the thief wanted to drink, at the end of the night, Sophie had deposited a drunk Parker safely into his arms for him to deal with.

“How ‘bout some crackers and some ginger ale?” he rubs gentle circles on her scalp, hoping to ease what is probably a throbbing headache.

“Do I have to move?” she sounds completely exhausted at the very idea of doing anything but staying curled up in Eliot’s warmth. “I don’t wanna move. I’ll die.”

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from laughing. Honestly, though, it was her first real hangover, complete with vomiting and a splitting headache and to have it slow her down like this is probably miserable. He’s not doubting her misery, but he is a little amused at how much it has slowed her down.

“You’d die jumpin’ off a buildin’ before a hangover, sweetheart.” he drawls, rubbing her head. “Maybe, next time you won’t drink something that weighs as much as you do.” 

Parker groans, curling a little further into herself.

His only response is a gruff laugh, despite the affection in his touch. The bathroom floor isn’t very comfortable, but then, he hadn’t put the floor down with future plans of being pinned down by a hungover Parker. She tends to change things; to fit together, the way they do, it had taken some adjusting of lives, priorities, morals.

He didn’t plan for her, didn’t want to rearrange his life to make room for someone else, especially not someone like her. Someone spontaneous and crazy and in need of something he’s still not sure he can give. But, there she is, and she thinks he is everything she needs, swears she doesn’t want anyone else and damn if he doesn’t find himself giving in, moving everything in his life around so she can be where she thinks she needs to.

Even if it means holding her on a cold bathroom floor.


	6. Rated T+: Tickle (Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov)

Sundays never amounted to much in the Romanov-Rogers house. Steve is up with the sun, bleary eyes open only enough to find the necessary buttons to brew the strongest pot of coffee known to mankind, before stumbling back to the bedroom to find his wife having appropriated his side of the bed. Natasha Romanov is notoriously a bed-hog, a fair warning both Clint and Laura offered upon learning of their intention to move in together. Steve understands why Clint would have such intimate knowledge of Nat’s sleeping habits, but he can’t quite wrap his head around why, or how rather, Laura obtained such information. It’s probably best he doesn’t know, anyway.

Today is, of course, no different.

Natasha has rolled onto his side of the bed and has left him no room to climb back in on his preferred side. His size had required a California King bed and it is always amazing to him how such a tiny slip of a human can occupy such a large space with so little room to spare. But, there is one tiny detail that neither Clint nor Laura are aware of and that is the fact that Natasha Romanov is extremely ticklish, especially when she’s relaxed like this, safely encapsulated in sleep.

So, if he just happens to accidentally drag the very tips of his fingers down the back of her exposed thigh, he would see her muscles twitch, and it might make him laugh silently, of course. No need to wake her up, just yet. He goes up just a touch higher and drags all the way down to the back of her knee, drumming his fingers on the nerve endings there.

Twitch.

Steve drags his fingers back up her thigh to her hip, slipping his fingers beneath the white elastic waistband of her Calvin Klein panties. She likes them because they’re super soft and comfortable. He likes them for far more shallow reasons; the tight panties hug her incredible ass in all the right ways. And, when he scrapes his thumb over her hip, he can watch her nose wrinkle. It’s such a strange place to be ticklish but Natasha’s hardly a conventional woman.

“‘Top.” a soft whine followed by the quick flip of the pillow underneath her so it covers her face.

“What?”

““ickles.” buried under the pillow, leg twitching, Natasha is hardly bright eyed and bushy tailed but she is just aware enough of what her husband is doing to know it tickles and the sensation is irritating as hell.

This, of course, does little stop Steve. Actually, it doesn’t stop him at all. It only encourages him. He pulls away and makes his way to the foot of the bed to slowly inch up the length of his wife. A bit of maneuvering puts him above her, and he braces one arm on the mattress, and let’s the other trail up her body to her ribs.

A muffled gasp melts into uncontrollable laughter when his hand dances on her ribs. “You,” tickle, “shouldn’t”, kiss, “be”, more tickling, “a”, another kiss, “bed hog.”

He tucks both arms around her and rolls them over, displacing the pillow she’d shoved her head under. With her on top of him, it gives him use of both hands, and he can see and enjoy the way her head falls back in bouts of giggles; eyes wrinkling in the corners, jade irises bright and happy, and the rasp of her laughter so warm but so content and free.

Red faces and breathless laughter and cries of, “Mercy!” bring the tickling to an end and Steve wraps an arm around Natasha, pulling her tight against his chest. “You know, you can hog the bed anytime. I just like to see you laugh.”

“You’re such a sap.” Natasha shakes her head at her husband - honestly, though, she wouldn’t change him for the world. It’s been a long time since she’s felt this genuinely happy with anyone, and it flatters her that Steve likes to see that.

So tender for all of his strength, he brushes a stray curl from her red, sticky face, and smiles at the happiness still reflected in her expression. “Just for you, Nat.”

“You mean that?”

“Always.” Her full lips brush his lightly, teasing, but he chases her, teeth closing around her bottom lip to pull her back in. Bodies rub, slowly re-positioning, legs bracketing hips, cotton panties pressed against Steve’s hard stomach. The kiss is hot, full of promise, and hips grind with a need, marriage did little to extinguish.

It doesn’t take long for Natasha’s panties to hit the floor.


	7. Rated T+: Cuddles (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

“I have nightmares.”

It occurs to him just how tiny she is, when he finds her huddled into herself on the couch, soft pink afghan wrapped around her trembling frame. Usually, she’d be in their bed, pressed tight to his body, but he woke up to empty arms and cold sheets and knew something had to be wrong.

“About what, darlin’?” the coffee table probably won’t hold his weight for very long, and wedging his thick legs into the tiny space between the couch and the table isn’t very comfortable, but Cassie is his concern.

“The Serpent Brotherhood.” her bottom quivers. “Usually, it’s not so bad but sometimes…sometimes, I want to scream, and I can’t.”

“Why?” Jake breathes.

Cassie isn’t necessarily a loud person, not in a vocal sense. Her personality is loud and vibrant and full of the life she was denied as a child but other than that, he finds Cassie to be a bit like himself - a bit shy, maybe quieter than people think she would be, with a brain like hers. So, for something like a nightmare to make her want to scream, to have such a visceral reaction to something, it would have to be one hell of a nightmare.

“Because, tonight, I watched them kill you over and over again.” Cassie whimpers, looking up at him. “They killed you, Jake, and I couldn’t stop them …and I had to watch and I wanted to scream how much I loved you, even if it didn’t mean anything and I wanted to wake up.”

“Breathe, darlin’.”

“I’m scared of them, Jake.” her soft confession is heartbreaking. “I’m scared they’ll kill you and I’ll have to watch and my nightmares will be real.”

“Hey,” the table creaks a little when relieved of his weight and the edge digs painfully into his calves when he leans over her, scooping her, and her beloved blanket, up into his arms. “It’s okay. That’s not gonna happen, baby girl.”

“But, how do you know, Jake?” Cassie needs more than sweet nothings to believe that the Serpent Brotherhood won’t get to him. “They’re powerful. What if we don’t have enough to stop them, next time?”

“We’ve got plenty, sweetheart.” Jake reassures her tenderly, heading for the bedroom. “Me and you - I reckon we can do anything we set our heads too. You’ve got your magic and I’ve got martial arts and we’ve got something the Serpent Brotherhood doesn’t.”

“What?”

The mattress barely dips under weight when he gently deposits her onto it before slipping beneath the covers. His open arms are an invitation Cassie is all too happy to accept, eagerly stretching out against him, nuzzling into his chest.

“Those snakes will never love each other like me and you do,” he finally murmurs, callused fingers combing through her silky curls. “Never much believed in love before you, sweet girl. To me, that’s the best kind of magic there is. These bastards are messing with your head. That’s what these dreams are.”

“But, why?” Cassie struggles to understand why they’d do this to her.

“Because, that’s what they do.” he kisses every inch of her face he can reach. “They want to get to us but I’m not leavin’ you, Cassie. They’re not going to get to me. These nightmares don’t mean a damn thing. They’ll never be real.”

“I hope not.”

He continues kissing her pale face, along her jaw, and her neck and tugging his fingers through her tangled curls. Wide eyes droop, the trembling stops, and her breathing slows, deep and even, where it’d once been shallow and harsh. She sleeps, safe and dreamless, in his arms, but he remains awake until the pearlescence of dawn slips through the curtains, the same thought looping in his head.

Take down the Serpent Brotherhood once and for all.


	8. Rated GA: Popcorn (Eliot Spencer/Parker)

“Hey, ow!” for such a lethal hitter, Eliot Spencer is a bit of a whiner, and with his fist balled against his eye - he looks more like an overgrown child, than the dangerous human being, the team has come to know. “Parker!”

But, Parker is curled up on his sofa, seemingly oblivious to the popcorn kernel he just took to the eye. His eyes narrow at the cute blonde - he knows she threw it, but he’ll let her play her innocent card for now. And, anyway, it was just one kernel, not like she dumped the whole bowl over his head, like she’d done to Hardison. Poor hacker smelled like butter and salt for a week.

When Eliot’s attention returns to the movie, content to ignore her for now, Parker crunches through a few kernels of her buttery snack, contemplating where to aim, next. The eye had been a bit too obvious for her first go but he did have a lot of hair.

Hmm.

The blonde thief makes it to six kernels, grease and salt and puffed corn clinging to the hitter’s shoulder length black hair in various places, before she worries that he’s going to notice.

(he noticed five kernels ago, but decided to see how far she’d go.)

Apparently, a movie about high-tech thievery isn’t enough to hold a professional thief’s attention for more than the few minutes it took her to listen to their plan, process it, and fix it. But, playing a makeshift game of pin the popcorn to Eliot is more than sufficient.

The seventh piece is a risk.

Parker likes risks, except this one backfires. Instead of sticking to his hair, it hits his shoulder and rolls into his lap. He growls, she cringes, but the popcorn casualties stuck in his hair remain gleefully in place. Instead, he narrows his eyes at her, again, only this time she sees it, and gives her fair warning; “All’s fair in love and war, Parks.”

The thief just giggles and happily returns to her munching, once more. Too caught up in telling the Ocean’s crew how to steal whatever it is they’re trying to steal, Parker doesn’t notice Eliot slipping out of the room and into the kitchen. A couple of cubes of ice should do the trick - a harmless shock of cold that will serve as revenge for the popcorn in his hair.

Ice cubes in hand, he slips behind the couch, and begins his work. He can be pretty tactile so she doesn’t think much of it when he nuzzles into her hair and kisses her head, dripping kisses down behind her ear. She just tilts her head and lets him continue. It isn’t until he’s pulled the collar of her shirt and something wet and cold is slipping down her back that she thinks he might be up to something.

_“Eliot!”_


	9. Rated M: Hotel Cuddles (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

The hotel is beautiful, he will grant Flynn that, but the opulence of it made Jacob Stone shudder in discomfort. He’d rather have a smaller, more personal room, somewhere that didn’t look like it came with a strict dress code and tiny portions on gold plates. Not to mention the room itself; a wildly extravagant thing with, to name a few things, a huge bed fitted with expensive satin sheets, elegant wood and silk upholstered armchairs, gold plated hardware in the cream and jade bathroom, and a kitchen bigger than his entire house.

“Oh, c’mon, Cowboy.” Cassie giggles, looping her arms around his neck. “It’s just for the night, and from what Flynn said, this was the Library’s choice, not his.” 

“I don’t know, Cass.” Jake eyes the room with a fair skepticism. In his defense, he lived his whole life on the verge of bankruptcy, in Oklahoma so if he shies away from luxury, it isn’t because he hates it, it because he isn’t acclimated to such spoils. “Did you see some of the people here? They looked at us like we were idiots. Hotels don’t normally come with dress codes, darlin’.”

“No, but,” her grin is sly, mischievous, deliciously so, and it promises he won’t be getting any sleep tonight. Especially when she presses closer, and leans up to whisper in his ear, teeth catching his ear lobe. “We never have to see them again.”

Jake groans, low and warm. That is a good point - one night here, while Jenkins works on the back door, and they’re back in Portland. All of these sons of bitches with their noses so high in the air, they stare at the ceiling, will be ancient history.

He could have Cassie on every available surface before they had to leave, take her against the wall, destroy those expensive sheets, in the shower, wherever they damn well pleased, and be as loud as they please while having the best sex of their lives.

“I think,” Cassie nibbles gently on that spot just behind his ear; lipstick print and teeth marks a matching shade of red. “I think we should do as all couples do when alone in a hotel room and make sure our neighbors get no sleep, tonight.”

“Oh?”

His choked whimper amuses Cassie, who busies herself with his neck, and unbuttoning his shirt. When she pushes it off of his shoulders, his collarbone is immediately marked with streaks of white where she drug her teeth and smudges of her lipstick. She feels him hardening, the heat of it, and the friction of the denim against her pelvis, pressing, rubbing.

“Feels like, you need to lose the jeans, Cowboy.” she giggles, sinking to her knees to trail hot kisses down his stomach. Cassie teases light scratches along the waistband of his ever tightening jeans.  

“You need to lose the dress, darlin’.” there’s an extra bit of breath in his voice, hand sinking into her hair, fingers knotting in the red curls.

Cassie just grins, rising to her feet once again. “I’m not wearing any panties.” a pause and then her deft hands rip the button through the hole. “What are you going to do about it?”

Jake just growls, looping one arm around her back, and using the other hand to grab her thigh and lift her up. In a few seconds, she’s pressed against the wall, hands digging almost painfully into his bare shoulders, legs locked around his waist while he pushes his jeans and boxers down. “Condom?”

“Birth control.” 

No sooner than she gasps out the words, he’s plunging into her with a sharp jerk of his hips. The pace is frantic and wild, borderline reckless, even, and their mouths clash, kisses nothing more than teeth and tongue and smudges of red lipstick. They’re loud and both of them will have a good laugh at the thought of their neighbors hearing them. Hell, maybe even the room above theirs, heard them.

Cassie isn’t afraid to almost scream when ecstasy explodes down her spine and one of many orgasms he has planned finally claims her. It isn’t long, though, before her clenching muscles pull his own climax from him and he’s burying his face into her shoulder, while all of his own muscles spasm, and for a minute there, he actually feels like spontaneous human combustion might be possible.

It takes them both a good few minutes to come down, exhausted, but their appetites for each other satiated. For now, at least. He still has plans for her. That is, if he can ever move again.

“You alright there, Cowboy?” Cassie strokes his hair and hugs him closer. He just grunts into her shoulder. “Okay, how ‘bout we move this to the bed?” 

Jake just nods, lifting his face up from her shoulder, and adjusting his hold on her so that she can release him. When she’s snuggled against him to her liking and is buried in his neck, he carries her to the bed and tucks her into the expensive sheets before climbing in beside her.

The satin sheets are cold and as soon as Jake is comfortable beneath the covers, Cassie’s trading her pillow his chest, pressing as close as possible. Neither of them care for the cold, preferring heat; something that might stem more from their addiction to each other’s heat than an actual aversion to cooler temperatures.

His hand combs her through her curls, and she traces circles on his stomach, while they both finish coming down; breathing and heart-rates returning to normal. They find drowsiness setting in before round two can even be a thought and sleep to be a comfort, after the stress of the day.

…

The next morning finds Jake on one side, one arm jutting out from under a pillow, and the other wrapped around her tiny frame. She’s perfectly content with her head tucked under his chin and her body stretched out against his, arms tucked between them. He wakes first to the sun in his eyes and looks down to find Cassie blinking open bleary eyes.

“Mornin’.” Jake grins, kissing her head. Cassie just hums, snuggling closer, content to lay in his warmth. “Hey, we’re leavin’ today.”

“No.” Cassie pouts, shifting a little. “Cuddle.”

That makes him laugh, “We can cuddle or do whatever you want when we get home, sweetheart.” he gives an affectionate squeeze. “But Jenkins hopefully has the door fixed and we need to get ready to go home. I need a shower. Get rid of this lipstick.”

Cassie just giggles, but the pout soon returns at the thought of Jake leaving the bed. “Fine. But you owe me cuddles.”

“I promise.”


	10. Rated T+: Tattoo (Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov)

“I need a tattoo.”

A corner of whatever military magazine he’s subscribed to folds down and a sharp blonde eyebrow lifts in a vaguely heavenward direction, stony expression tensing the finely chiseled jaw. There’s a certain dryness to his long drawl of, “You need one or you want one?”

“Does it matter?” Natasha is carefully calculated; from the clipped tone to the tepid anger in every line of her face. 

“Not to me.” Steve relents with a shrug. “But, a tattoo is a permanent decision, so you might consider the difference.” 

“I’m not one for pro/con lists,  _Steven.”_ it’s nothing but a dangerous growl in his general direction; nothing real behind it, nothing to make knees knock together, or his chin quiver. 

“I didn’t say that,  _Natalia.”_ he counters with a growl of his own, but his eyes twinkle with that stupid mischief that always leads him to trouble. 

“What did you say?” Natasha wrinkles her face, forehead scrunching in confusion. 

“I said,” Steve struggles to keep the grin from tugging the corners of his mouth up. “There is a difference between need and want. Consider it before you make such a permanent decision.” 

“It’s not so permanent.” it’s Natasha’s turn to shrug. “There are laser removal clinics all over town.” 

“Fine.” if his eyes roll any farther back, they might get stuck - that had been a strategy employed by Sarah Rogers to counter her son being a little smart-ass, and it stuck with him. “What do you want? I assume this conversation happened because you’re looking for a design.” 

“Would a spider-web be cliche?” 

…

The design they work together to create ends up being a spine-length piece that puts the hilt of a long sword in the lovely dip between her shoulder blades and the tip of the blade in her lower back. It’s a simple sword but if one is to look closely at the hilt, they would find her black widow insignia.

She gets the work done at a tattoo/piercing parlor not far from their place by a bald, heavily-tattooed man named Fred. He draws a rare smile from her, when he tells her of his work with the local branch of the B.A.C.A organization, asking if he might acquire a copy of her design for the child he’s currently going through a trial with, as the little girl loves swords.

“Who did the design?” Fred fills in the hilt of the word with a smoky gray.

“My husband, Steve.” Natasha smiles into her crossed arms. 

“He’s a damn good artist.” Fred grins, fading the gray into the blade of the sword. 

Natasha just smiles. It’s so rare for Steve’s artistic abilities to earn him any sort of compliment so she tends to boast about his art whenever the opportunity presents itself. It does sadden her that if she used his full name, he might only get praise because of who he is, but leaving his last name off tends to get him the more genuine compliments.

“If you want, you can make a copy of the drawing, and give it to the little girl you’re protecting.” Natasha offers softly. 

“Thanks.” 

Fred’s somber tone alerts Natasha to what he might be going through with the little girl. It isn’t long before he’s spilling vague details of boarding school abuse and teary parents who took as much comfort in his presence as the little girl and by the time she’s paying him for his time and attention to detail, it is taking every ounce of strength she has not to break down in tears.

…

A quivering mess of tears is what bursts through the front door, drawing Steve from his sketchbook. The alarm is immediate and he’s quick to rush to her, forgetting about the half-finished sketch of her he’d been working on. “Nat, what’s wrong?”

“The tattoo artist.” 

“What about him? Did he do something to you?” Steve’s temper flares, hands unconsciously tightening around her biceps. 

“No, no, I’m fine but he, uh, - do you know what B.A.C.A is?” Natasha fumbles for the words. 

“Yeah, the bikers against child abuse.” Steve relaxes a bit. “What about them?”

“The tattoo artist is a member and he was telling me about the little girl he’s protecting a - a- and she…” the tears leak from her eyes, now. “Not much, obviously, but vague details and how she’s afraid of school because of what happened to her at her old one and her name is Natalie. Steve, her goddamn name is Natalie.” 

“Okay, whoa, whoa,” Steve is quick to grab her face in his hands, thumbing the tears from her face. “Slow down, Nat. What’s wrong?”

“He’s protecting a little girl named Natalie, right now.” Natasha whimpers, feeling incredibly small. “And, she’s afraid of school because of what happened to her and I felt so stupid because I saw myself in a little girl I’ve never met.”

“You’re not stupid, sweetheart.” but, it’s not a coo, Steve doesn’t do that. It’s a tenderness, a way of speaking that cuts through her tough as nails exterior. “You’re human and you know what she must feel like because you’ve been where she is. The black widow program tortured you, and you remember that fear.” he leans his forehead against hers. “But, you’re okay, Nat, and now so is she.” 

“She’s so young, Steve.” Natasha finally sighs.

“I know.” Steve nods, dropping one hand to her neck, tracing her jaw with his thumb. “But, she’s going to be okay. Just like you are.”

It takes her another hour or so to calm down completely and let Steve see the finished work. In the depiction of leather and steel, Steve sees a reflection of his wife; appearing delicate, flexible, and breakable, underestimated until the shining blade draws blood and the leather hilt is hard in inexperienced palms. Until the steel doesn’t bend nor break. It is unmovable, even with it’s thinness.

Natasha Romanov-Rogers is a sword.

And, Steve Rogers loathes every inexperienced hand who used her as nothing more than a weapon for their own gain.


	11. Rated E: Black Dress (Tony Stark/Pepper Potts)

It is hardly his fault, and Tony Stark will damn well maintain that, too. That bend in the space-time continuum that for a good thirty seconds, made his brain quiver like half-set jello in a bowl, his mouth trip completely over itself for words, and his stomach flop like a fish out of water, could be blamed entirely on Pepper Potts.

More specifically, Pepper Potts in that black dress.

Up until that point, he’d thought that the famed little black dress was a mere myth perpetuated by women who thought themselves sexier than they were. Oh, sure, he’d seen women in black dresses but nothing struck him as spectacular. Then again, there hadn’t been folds of inky black satin pooling around polished toes, no ribbons of shiny material clasping around an elegant neck, and no V in the back that dipped into the small of her back, leaving a mere half-inch before lifting into the swell of a rather fantastic ass.

And, certainly not a single woman ever had her gorgeous blue eyes and the soft red waves falling over one shoulder, diamond studs sparkling beautiful against the contrast of dark fabric and creamy skin. Nor had they ever appeared before him, a vision of the night, fingers toying with the dress just enough to give him a glimpse of thigh.

“Your tie is crooked,” she tucks her velvet clutch under her elbow, pinning it to her ribs, as she reaches for his bow-tie, tugging it until it sits right. The bob of his Adam’s apple shifts her eyes up to his face, where she finds his lips parted, and his eyes heavy, as if he’s tired, but that isn’t it, at all. “I suppose it is convenient that tuxedo pants are a little roomier than your traditional suits.”

“Yes.” a crisp monosyllable is all he can manage. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

A salacious grin tugs at ruby lips, voice dropping to merely a breath. “You wear your suits tight enough that anyone in the room would know that I turned you on, that you are ready to have your wicked, wicked way with me, the minute I say go.”

“Is that a go? Because it sounded like a go.” Tony’s never been one for such a dangerous growl, but he’d really like to tear that pretty dress off of her, and take her against the nearest wall.

“No.” Pepper smiles sweetly, turning toward the foyer where her wrap waits. “I thought we might enjoy tonight. It is so very rare that we get a date night, these days.”

Tony whimpers.

…

The annual Fireman’s Charity Ball is excruciating; droning voices, lackluster entertainers, and champagne that seems to take on a little more bitterness every year. Of course, in years past, he might be inclined to simply sulk at the bar over a glass of whiskey. Or five. Until he was so drunk, Happy had to carry him out to the car, but not tonight.

Tonight, the only distraction is Pepper and that damn dress.

It’s a solid hour of complete and utter non-sense before she tucks herself into his side and expresses her wish to go home and get him out of that tuxedo and if he’s real nice, she’ll let him rip her dress off.

“Well,” Tony bites his lip, eyes considerably darker. “I’ll try to play nice.”

…

By the time, they reach the limo, he is absolutely throbbing in his tuxedo pants, and the ache between her legs is a dull pulse of arousal that drips down her thighs. But, always elegant, she offers everyone who stops them a sweet smile and a polite handshake, before Tony can usher her away into the limo. She’s ordering the driver to close the partition when he pulls the door shut.

“Pepper?” Tony can’t even pretend to be confused at this point. This is not the first time he’s had sex in the back of a limo. With Pepper, yes, it is the first time she’s wanted it in the back of his limo, but with other girls, not so much.

“Hush.” the quiet command comes as soon as the window is closed and she’s certain the driver won’t be privy to a private show.

Tony’s mouth opens, closes, and finally opens again when Pepper brackets his hips with her knees, latches onto the seat on either side of his head, and catches his mouth in a fierce kiss. His hips lift up into hers, offering a needy grind.

Pepper bites his lip to keep from crying out.

The taste of copper and the reason for it only serves to make him harder - he’s never been afraid of a little blood. There are tiny scars above his left hipbone where he spent time exploring blood play, masochism, and reveling in watching all evidence of his exploration swirl down the drain in the shower. The wounds healed within twenty-four hours and his boundaries had been firmly established.

He doesn’t even realize she’s popped the button on his pants until she’s forcing them down around his thighs and her hand strokes him through his boxers before pulling them down to free him. It takes everything in them both not to whimper in relief when she sinks down onto him inch by torturous inch. When he’s completely buried inside of her, she takes a moment to adjust.

This isn’t their first rodeo, so to speak, but they always need that minute to adjust to each other, to familiarize, even as muscle memory has his hands cupping her breasts through the satin of her dress, and smearing the lipstick off of her mouth with a hard kiss.

An experimental roll of her hips, fingers still digging into the smooth vinyl on either side of his head, and they’re both tensing, hoping like hell, they don’t give in, and make this loud and embarrassing for all involved.

This isn’t Pepper, though.

That’s what occurs to Tony. Pepper doesn’t do public sex, hardly the type to risk her dignity, even for her own pleasure. But, this is different. This is primal and feral and she wants it as much as he does, as much as they both need it.

“I,” a hard grind, “wanted,” a sharp thrust, “you.”

His hips lift up, jerking the last word out of her in a multi-syllable stutter. A few more harsh thrusts and her mouth opens in a silent scream. It’s hard to be quiet when white-hot pleasure splinters up your spine, threatens to pull you apart molecule by molecule, atom by atom, and you know without a doubt you’ll enjoy every second of the white heat. 

Doesn’t take much, really for them both to fall apart. Pepper trembles down to her toes, feels them curling in the tight confines of her shoes, and Tony shoves up into her harder, deeper, with every delicious spasm of his own orgasm. 

She falls against his chest, sweat and lipstick smudging on his white shirt, letting him rub her back as they both come down from their high. 

“Hey,” his fingers sink into her hair. “What was that about?“ 

Pepper can only shrug, still exhausted and boneless against him, and he’s still twitching inside of her pulling her deeper into orgasmic bliss. Later, when she’s righted herself in the seat next to him, sated and drowsy and he’s tucked away from an indecency charge, she’ll explain that something about knowing she had the power to turn him on just by wearing a dress empowered her and all she wanted was to have him in whatever way she could get him and if that meant quiet sex in the back of a limo, then so be it. 

“Wear that dress. All the time. In fact, do me a favor, and just never take it off.” 


	12. Rated GA: Snow (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

Cassie bounces into the annex - because, of course, she does - coffees in hand, bags on her arm - she’s got a bag for everything - and her big, pretty eyes bright with a giddiness, Jake’s not sure he’s ever seen before. Her fiery hair is sparkling with snow, calling up the memory of their last clipping, and the little crystals balanced precariously on a pin that she’d dotted her hair with, for the black tie event. The way, they’d caught the light, and how it’d been so perfectly Cassandra.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” as per their tradition, Jake’s morning greeting is accompanied by him appropriating half of what she’s carrying - usually the bags, not because she can’t carry them, but because the more weighed down she is, the clumsier she is, and he’d rather not see her spill hot coffee on the expensive laptop she just bought. “What’s got you so excited, this mornin’?”

“It’s snowing!” her face scrunches adorably, the excitement all but oozing out of every pore.

Ezekiel’s face contorts in confusion around a bite of apple; “We’ve been in Portland for two years, and you’re from New York.”

“I grew up with people, who did not believe in anything that could not contribute to my education.” okay, so, she’s a little sharper than she has to be, but honestly, she refuses to let a twenty-something with a smart mouth ruin something so magical for her. “I never got to enjoy the snow.”

The thief’s face immediately changes; cheeks flush, eyes widen, and it closely resembles that of a deer caught in the headlights of a car heading straight for it. It is all too easy to get caught up in Cassandra’s brightness, in the optimistic way she approaches things, that he forgets how little she got to enjoy as a child and how she refuses to take even the simplest joys for granted. But, before he can apologize, Jake is diffusing the situation and ushering the redhead off to her lab.

…

Noon’s arrival brings with it another four inches of snow, Ezekiel stretching out of the daze of spells and curse history, and Jake digging around in a random closet for something. Apparently, he finds what he’s looking for because a loud, “Aha!” echoes through the annex, followed by the thump of heavy boots.

“Cassie!” a blur of plaid and leather pass by, something bundled in his arms, and her name tumbling out of the art historian’s mouth. “Cassie!”

The mathematician is huddled over an unrolled map, protractors, highlighters, and crumpled sheets of printer paper surrounding her. She doesn’t appear to hear him and the only thing that gets her attention is when he lets the armful of stuff he’s carrying scatter across her work-space. That makes her jump back with a frightened gasp.

“It’s just me, darlin’, I called your name but you didn’t hear me.” Jake laughs, reaching across the table to soothe her with a calm hand on her arm. “Listen, winter storm Gabe just dumped four more inches of snow on us. I found this stuff and thought you might need a break so…” 

It’s then that she notices what is scattered across her desk - a few scarves in different patterns and lengths, a couple of old tobacco pipes, and a jar of buttons. All supplies for a, “Snowman?!”

“Absolutely, c’mon! There’s coal out back and that old pine tree dropped plenty of limbs, yesterday!” Jake’s almost as excited as Cassie, gathering up the supplies for their yet to be built snowman.

Cassie follows him, giggling happily at the prospect of an afternoon in the snow with her best friend. They bundle up, both grinning and giggling like school-children and head outside.

…

“Think that’s big enough for his head?” Cassie tilts her head, observing the newly constructed snowman before her.

The fresh snow had been perfect for a snowman but the logistics of it had taken some time - either the snow wasn’t packed tight enough so the base would crumble when the weight of another ball was added, or it was packed too tight and Jake couldn’t blend the base with the midsection to stabilize it. 

“I think so,” Jake shrugs,brushing excess snow from what would be the neck. “I’ve never really built one but it looks alright to me.” 

“Me too!”

She  _skips_ up the snowman and tenderly, almost, drapes the scarf around the neck, and pops in a large red button that would serve as his nose. The black buttons that form the snowman’s mouth give an otherwise cheerful smile an eerie feel about it and the hairs on the back of Jake’s neck stand-up when he sees the finished face - he’ll have to speak with Jenkins, later, about this. Something is definitely not right.

Before, he can contemplate the weird sense, Cassie is bounding back to him with a wild grin on her face, happy and energized and refreshed by the winter activity; “He needs arms!”

“Okay.” he lets her drag him off to find some tree branches that would serve as arms for her creation. Despite the distraction, he can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right, and not even the constant reminder to speak with Jenkins can abate that sting of something sinister crawling down his spine.

Jake reluctantly helps her strip a couple of branches and stick them in the side of the snowman’s midsection to form arms. Cassie can’t help but notice the enthusiasm from earlier has dissipated and it seems like something is bothering him.

“Jake?” she brushes the tips of her fingers along his cheekbone. “Is everything alright?” 

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” his smile is fake -  _so_ fake, but Cassie doesn’t question him. “Let’s admire your creation here. Should we take pictures for Eve and Flynn?” 

“Ooh, can we?” 


	13. Rated T+: Black Dress (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian

He was fine,  _fine_ , he swore. His heart definitely didn’t skip a few…dozen…beats when he heard her clicking down the hall in those pretty,  _shiny_  heels, and the blood definitely didn’t leave his brain when she appeared before him in that black dress.

That god-forsaken creation of silk and lace. That perfect sheen of black silk adhering to her tiny frame, cutting a clean line across mid-thigh, and that soft,  _soft_ lace that stretched across her chest, just covering her cleavage enough to tease, and down her arms in three-quarter length sleeves.

“How do I look?” she gives a little twirl, and it’s then that he notices the back. 

It’s open.

A deep V splitting the silk to a clean point in the small of her back. His jeans are uncomfortable, now. God, there was hardly an inch of her creamy skin covered by the damn thing. So much of it was begging to be touched, to be worshiped, and he’s trying very hard to remember that they do, in fact, have to leave the house, tonight.

“Are you sure we have to go?” his voice is barely a growl; dark, dangerous, predatory. 

“Yes.” Cassie’s bright eyes widen, fear of him backing out. “You promised me a date and I expect a date, Mister Stone.” 

“Kinda hard to focus, Miss Cillian.” Jake grabs her wrist and tugs her closer to him. “When I’ve seen you in nightgowns that cover more than this dress.”

“Well, do try harder.” she grins, eyes twinkling with so many unspoken promises. Oh, she knows what she’s doing, and she  _likes_ it, and if he survives the night, she’s going to do something about it. “I expect better from you.”

Jake  _whimpers._

But, fine, if she wants a date, he’ll give her one. He’ll pour every ounce of Southern charm he has into getting her out of that dress before the night is over. Never let it be said Jake Stone couldn’t wine and dine a woman - he can and he will.

“Let’s go, then, darlin’.” his composed smile matches his growl; same danger, same predatory wickedness in his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to be late. We have reservations.”

Before, they even get out of the driveway, Cassie’s panties and heels are in his floorboard, and she’s wedged between him and the steering wheel, legs spread, and dress slowly tearing.

No.

They never make their reservations.


	14. Rated GA: Dance (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

The sparkle of fairy lights and the bubbling of champagne in tall flutes blurs the atmosphere, softens edges, mutes bright colors, and smudges soft gold onto the white lace of her dress and into spirals of fiery red hair. Eyes bright with tears and magic, everything about her swept up in the surreal setting. Cream roses and lilies dusted with the lightest of pinks mix with dark green ivy and drip from the wood canopy.

His presence is heavy and warm at her back, where he’s been content to watch her. Never one for the spotlight, Jake had been all too happy to let their wedding day be about Cassie, even going out of his way to plan a surprise for the reception; to plan what the venue would look like, what the atmosphere should be, even what music should play and how loud it would be. 

“Breathe, now, darlin’.” he reminds her, curling his hands around her biceps and thumbing the joint where shoulder met arm. “Do you like it?” 

“It’s perfect!” 

Barely a breath, a short of burst of air catching in her throat, because it is all  _so_ perfect. Surrounding the canopy, lanterns cast puddles of orange onto an impeccably polished dance floor, and a line of paper lanterns wait to be lit and released when night falls completely, waiting to dot the sky with evidence of the joyous celebration the day has been. 

“You are perfect, sweetheart.” Jake smiles into the top of her head, using his hold on her arms to spin her around to face him. “Ready for our first dance?” 

“Yes.” 

At Jake’s cue, Jenkins starts the music, and Cassie is immediately swept away in the whimsical mix of strings and piano, something soft and romantic, to make her feel as if she is waltzing amongst the clouds, as if it is but a gorgeous dream. 

She slips her arms around his broad shoulders and presses her face into his neck, breathing him in. Fresh soap and spicy cologne and just a little bit of sweat, a saltiness to remind her that he is still human, and today of all days, he is prone to nerves. But, he’d been an anchor, steadying her with a solid hand curled around hers, and a reassuring smile when the ceremony swirled to an end around them; when she felt rice slip down the front of her dress, and catch in her delicate curls, when guests had cheered, and Ray’s idea of magic had sent a thousand paper cranes fluttering around the room with the promise of eternal luck and happiness. 

“How did you do this?” Cassie breathes, still in awe of her surroundings, even as she nuzzles closer to her new husband. 

His laugh is smooth and deep, shuddering through both of them, and she happily snuggles in when he tightens his arms around her. “It wouldn’t be magic, if I told you, Cass.” 

Oh well. 

It is still perfect. A dream, almost. Actually, it is better than any dream; most of her dreams involved a faceless prince keeping her at arm’s length and no one around to see her dance on her wedding day. Now, though, her prince has a handsome face with beautiful blue eyes, he’s holding her close, and in her peripheral vision, she sees everyone she cares about, watching her, smiling, happy.  

“Jake?” her voice is just audible over the music. 

“Yeah, darlin?” 

“Today was perfect.” 

That little sigh of happiness, of content, means more to him than anything in the world. It takes everything in him not to let the tears just pour down his face as they move around the dance floor. 

Yes. 

Today was perfect. 


	15. Rated E: Lace (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

She isn’t sure it’s a good idea, but she’d already paid one hell of a price for the lingerie and she wasn’t about to return it. The simple bra, lace and silk in a soft mauve color, fits like a dream, lifting her breasts enough to give her something that could pass as cleavage. Not generous, but hopefully enough to entice. She’s never been  _blessed_ in the chest area, not like some girls were, and she’s always been okay with that, but it did mean creative use of lingerie.

Cassie just hoped it was enough.

Not that Jake ever complained, and that was part of the problem. He literally  _never_ had a complaint about any part of her; not when soft curls met his fingers because clippings had kept her too busy to ladyscape, or when that time of the month left her nipples too sensitive to touch or for his mouth to suck to hard points until she was thrashing and whimpering beneath him. Instead, he simply dipped his fingers into her, letting her curls bunch in his palm, and thumbed that sensitive bundle of nerves, or kissed his way between her breasts and across her ribs, mouthing soft flesh, but careful of tender spots. Or, he’d spend several minutes rocking against her, letting her feel the weight of him, teasing her, before he sunk into her, before she felt him, thick, hard, _hot_ inside of her.

Just the thought of it is enough to dampen the matching lace panties that came with the bra. Her face flushes, and she feels the almost overwhelming urge to grind on something,  _anything_ for some friction, some relief. It doesn’t take much longer to have her pushing her wet panties down her legs, and crawling on the bed to relieve the throbbing ache.

She doesn’t hear the sound of her door opening followed by a deep, “Cassie? You home, sweetheart? Cass?”

“ _Jake!_ ” 

Huh.

Her voice sounds a little different. Shaky, maybe? Something about the pitch was off? He can’t quite place it, but something is different about her. When Jake reaches her bedroom, he’s quick to learn what has her sounding so different. There, on the bed, on her stomach is Cassie, one hand clutching the sheets, the other working between her legs, her face smashed into a pillow, muffling the string of curse words and whimpers, and on the floor is a pair of panties, he assumes matches the bra she’s wearing. 

_“God!”_

Her hand works faster, harder, hips moving, pressing and rubbing into her palm and the mattress. She’s clearly content to do this without him, and while he feels perverted watching, he also knows that she’d called him over so she had to know he’d find her. Judging from the uncomfortable tightness of his jeans, clearly, there are other parts of him enjoying the show.

“Jake, God, yes!” she mewls, and he knows. 

She’s  _almost_ there.

Almost at the tipping point, where ecstasy takes over, and he so loves watching her when she reaches this point. It won’t take much, so he waits, biding his time until just the perfect moment. When the movement of her hips becomes erratic, he makes his move.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” his voice is soft and raspy, dripping with a Southern accent that could peel the paint off of the walls, and it is exactly what she needs. Her entire body tenses, breath catching, as if waiting for something, but it isn’t long before she’s giving into the ecstasy with a deep moan. It isn’t until she’s come back down that he says anything else, waiting until she’s melted into the bed, satisfied from such sweet relief.

“I assume the lingerie was for me?”


	16. Rated GA: Text (Eliot Spencer/Parker

The first text she sends him is something silly and typically Parker; a joke she heard, somewhere. He doesn’t remember what it was, now, but it’d been the kind of thing you’d be told by a five-year-old and not wanting to hurt their feelings, you’d giggle. He’d responded with something vague so she’d think he’d enjoyed it, when he’d really just rolled his eyes.

_Eliot, why did the computer go to the doctor?_

_Parker._

_Because it had a virus._

_…_

The second text she sends him is a chain letter, and God, does he hate Sophie, right then. It’s so long, it literally takes up the entire length of his screen and was so large, it was broken into two separate messages. He’d smelled Sophie from the get-go. Sometimes, he wondered if she didn’t secretly confer with Parker on ways to annoy him; arguably Parker knew him better than Sophie, so, he could generally tell who did what. But this - this reeked of Sophie, and he’d be getting her back for it as soon as possible. For now, though, a simple order would suffice.

_Give Parker her phone, Sophie._

_…_

The third text is one seeking confirmation. While normally she’d just take the flying leap and hope someone or something was there, that was  _before_ she’d gone and gotten herself attached to the team. Now, she wanted someone there, and usually the person she wanted to catch her was Eliot. So, she’d send a text and he’d send her something in response.

_There?_

_Fly, Parks. I’m here._

_…_

The fourth text is one he won’t read for a week. A drunk driver going eighty in a forty leaves him in the hospital comatose. The doctors had said something about the brain shutting down to protect itself from the trauma. Hardison had made a quiet exit, seeking the solace of Nana to help him cope. Parker, in a fit of grief, had stubbornly refused to cry but instead planted herself in a chair by his bed, snapping that she wouldn’t be leaving his side until the hitter woke up. It wasn’t until Nate and Sophie left, that she rested her head on the side of his bed, and sobbed into sheets smelling of blood and disinfectant. She’ll send only one text, crying harder when she sees his phone light up from the bag of personal effects on his bedside table.

_Please, wake up!_

_…_

Her fifth text is different. It’s a declaration of sorts, and while it isn’t how Eliot would have chosen to make this particular statement, he knows that Parker does things differently. She is unconventional; doesn’t realize that this is the sort of thing you say to someone’s face. Or, maybe, she does, but she’s just not comfortable and she hadn’t really been able to say much in the way of feelings, focusing on his care after the accident. Between getting him to doctor’s appointments, trying her best to make him something decently edible that didn’t involve dry cereal and milk, binding his ribs until the two broken ones heal, and feeding him painkillers every couple of hours at night so he can get something resembling rest - she hasn’t really had much time to think about how best to tell him. But then, when you’re bed-ridden, receiving such a message makes the pain lessen considerably.

_Never do that to me, again! I love you!_


	17. Rated T: Fast Car (Eliot Spencer/Parker)

The knock comes at one in the morning, and really, Eliot should be a hell of a lot less surprised than he is about who he finds on the other side of the door. Messy blonde hair, sleek black clothes, red, teary eyes could only mean one person. Parker. Since her break-up with Hardison - which, honest to God, even he saw coming - she’s been hanging around his place a lot more, showing up randomly, until he started actually inviting her over or simply scooping her up and dropping her into the passenger seat of his truck to just cut to the chase and get her where she’d inevitably end up. 

This time is different, though. She’s never shown up with a bag before. Not the duffel bag laying across the tops of her Converse clad feet. Her usual is a small, worn leather bag that, while not in the best shape, still served its purpose well. But, this - this is something else. It’s large and canvas and black and stuffed full. Wherever she’s going, she intends to stay there for a long time. 

“Parks?” Eliot reaches out to touch her face; cool, damp skin greets him when he thumbs her blotchy cheek. “What are you doing here?“ 

The blonde thief shifts, shuffling the bag from her feet, before launching herself into Eliot’s arms. When she’s snuggled into him enough for her liking, she presses her face into his neck, and mumbles into the warm skin, in a tone that sounds so much like an upset child. “I wanna go away." 

"What?” a patient hand trails up her spine to the back of her neck. “What are you talking about?" 

A frustrated sigh and then her soft voice repeating, "I wanna go away." 

"Well, where the hell are you gonna go, Parker?” Eliot’s face screws up in confusion, even as he continues rubbing her back. 

Parker just shrugs, pressing into him a little more, until there’s no space to be found between them. “You’ve got a car.” Her voice is a bit strained, as if she is on the verge of crying. “I don’t care where, I just want to get out of Portland.”

Bad idea. 

Terrible idea - he knows this, but he also knows Parker. And, if she says she wants out of Portland, she will do anything necessary to make it happen. If he doesn’t agree, he can’t be sure of her safety, even if she can take care of herself. The girl is a threat to society with most dinnerware. But, it’s not just her safety, he wants to be sure of. It’s her return. If she leaves by herself, there won’t be anything or anyone to bring her back, and she’ll be a ghost by dawn. 

“Let me go pack.”   
…   
It’s five in the morning and Parker is fast asleep, curled up in the passenger seat, buried in the hitter’s leather jacket. She cried for the first hour they were on the road, wouldn’t stop talking the second hour, then by four, weepy Parker had returned so Eliot had sung for forty-five minutes to soothe her to sleep.   
She never said why she wanted to leave and as curious as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Parker usually tells him everything, but if this is something, she wants to keep to herself, he respects that. So, they packed up his truck, and got the hell out of Portland before the sun came up. No texts to Nate, Sophie, or Hardison. Nothing. She didn’t want to and, really, neither did he. 

The team is great, don’t get him wrong, but him and Parker - they’re the lone wolves. They don’t need a pack, and whatever bond they’ve formed with each other, that’s as close to a pack as they feel they need. The less contact outside of work, the better for all involved. Except for him and Parker. 

In a way, a weird way but still, she is his exception to most rules. Actually, she is a lot of things, some more dangerous than others. She’s a fast car, the bullet from a gun, the feeling you get when the fear ends and the free fall begins, that adrenaline rush you chase when you don’t think you can feel anymore, and you want to know what it’s like to be seconds from death. She’s danger. 

But, she’s his safety. 

And, something’s hurt her. Given, this isn’t a hard feat, it still pains him to think of what must have gone down between her and Hardison to get her where she is. To get her to a point where leaving Portand feels like her only option. 

Sparing a glance over at the sleeping thief, he sighs, and reaches for her knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze. 

“What happened to you, Parks?”   
… 

“Don’t blame Hardison." 

"I can’t promise that, darlin’.” Eliot shifts in his seat - he’d sort of already placed the blame squarely on Hardison, even if it was a bit unfair of him to do so. It just killed him to see Parker so upset, her habit of running away would resurface.

“Not unless you tell me what happened." 

"Hardison didn’t do anything.” Parker’s bottom lip trembles. “I did." 

"What do you mean, sweetheart?” a smooth lane change, before he can look at her, taking in the fresh tears and the quivering chin. “What happened?" 

"I have feelings for someone else.” her face flushes bright red. “Sophie says that I’ve probably always had these feelings but Hardison was more emotionally available so I…" 

"Thought they were for him?" 

Parker just nods. 

"So,” he’s not terribly sure he wants the answer to this question but he has to know. “Who do you have feelins’ for?" 

It takes her a few minutes of shifting, gauging what she thinks his reaction will be, and how it might be different from what she hopes it will be. Because, all of those feelings she always thought were for Hardison were not for him at all, but for Eliot. She’s always loved the hitter far more than the hacker. 

"Parker?" 

"They’re for you, Eliot.”

Eliot almost chokes on his coffee. Shit. He knew how he felt about the thief - how she’d wiggled her way in and refused to leave and how jealous he’d felt when she’d started up whatever it was with Hardison. But, he’d suffered in silence, unable to do anything but accept that the hacker was the one she wanted, and he’d be the odd man out. He never thought she felt the same way. She always seemed so content with Hardison and the dynamic they had, so he’d never bothered. 

“How long, Parker?” he breathes, when he can force the coffee down the right way. 

“I don’t know. It just occurred to me, one day, that when I jump, Hardison’s never waiting for me.” Parker’s not quite pouting but her arms are crossed and he can hear her stubbornness creeping in. She hates being vulnerable, it’s one of the things that makes them so compatible, is they both hate talking about feelings. “You catch me. And, you…you understand me. Like, the Alaska job when you told me that we do things the others can’t and you help me, even when you don’t want to or your own life’s at risk." 

"I’ll always catch you, sweetheart.” he reaches across the center console to take her hand, thumbing her knuckles. “As for this whole feelings thing, well, darlin’, we’ve got a hell of a lot to figure out." 

"Does that mean you love me, too?” Parker’s entire countenance changes; stubbornness and that little bit of anger at herself giving way to something lighter, something different. 

“It means I loved you the first time I caught you." 

The speedometer needle creeps higher, leaving Portland behind in a cloud of dust. In the back of his mind, he can hear his Mama lecturing him on those damn fast cars he loved so much and how he’d end up in trouble. 

Not this time, Mama. 


	18. Rated T+: Pancakes & Coffee (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

“So,” her green glitter polish stands out against the white mug, one finger circling the rim. “My Mom called.”

He spoons apple pie filling into the center of a frying pancake, covers it with a dollop of batter, and reaches for his coffee mug, needing a pull of caffeine in order to steel himself against whatever her mother had to say. “What’d she have to say?” 

“The hospital where I had my surgery contacted them.” Cassie remembers the conversation clearly - a screaming Moira Cillian raging about emergency contacts and papers and clean hands. “Apparently, they’re still listed as my emergency contacts. She wasn’t happy about it.”

Fingers clench around the spatula, he plucked from the jar, his most used utensils called home. “She picked a hell of a time to call.”

“Well, Moira Cillian isn’t known for her good timing.” Cass’ teeth clench, hands tightening around the mug. “Neither of them are.”

Her fingers absently seek out the scar hidden by her red curls, sleepy blue eyes content to watch him cook. The skilled flicks of his wrist, the easy, relaxed whisking of the batter, and the careful fold of cinnamon and sugar into a bowl of apples. It’s a mesmerizing process, monotonous enough, she can relax, and form the right words to tell him what else her mother said.

“She also said that I wasn’t their problem. Their hands were clean of me. I shouldn’t dirty them, again.” she curses her memory; the way it rolls those words around her head, refuses to let go of them, and how easily it fills her eyes with tears. “I’m going to call Monday and have my emergency contacts changed.” 

Her eyes avert to the steaming liquid in her cup but she can’t drink it. She doesn’t feel like she can swallow; there’s too much emotion knotting up in her throat. Instead, she just looks, waiting for Jake’s reaction.

“I’m sorry for what I’m about to say, darlin’.” his voice is hoarse, ragged. “But, she is a bitch.”

“Don’t apologize.” Cassie just shakes her head, far too used to hearing it. Even Moira’s own mother had said she grew up to be the exact opposite of what she was supposed to. “My own grandmother called her one. I’m used to hearing it.” 

“You shouldn’t be.” Jake sighs, flipping pancakes onto a plate. “You shouldn’t have to hear it. You shouldn’t have to hear the abuse she throws at you. You shouldn’t have to agree that she’s a bitch. She’s your Mama, she should be better than that.” 

“Neither Moira nor Stephen Cillian care about anyone but themselves.” Cassandra explains softly, trying in vain to dry her eyes. “They care about what you can do for them. I was their perfect child prodigy. That was all they ever wanted me to be. To them, I was already dead when the doctor said I had the brain grape.” 

“But, you’re still here, Cass.” Jake reminds her gently, grabbing the pot with the still-warm caramel sauce to drizzle over the pancakes. “And, you will be for a long time.” 

“I hope so.” 

“Gotta have someone to keep me in line.” he offers her a playful wink, pouring the rest of the caramel into a bowl, should either of them want more. “Now, you ready for breakfast?” 

“Yes, please!” Cassie perks up at the mention of food; especially that which he cooked. She’ll always prefer Jake’s home cooking to any restaurant. “What are we having?”

He pulls two pans out of the oven, one with hashbrowns, the other with bacon. Jake scoops a generous helping of each onto their plates, making sure everything is in order, before he picks up the plates and carries them to the table.

“We’ve got apple pie pancakes with caramel sauce.” he sets a plate down in front of her. The black square plate is perfectly presented with golden pancakes, a sheen of gooey apples in the center, lines of caramel, browned shredded potatoes, and slices of crisp bacon. “Bacon, hashbrowns, and coffee.” 

“Sounds delicious!”


	19. Rated M: Black Dress & Glasses (Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov)

“Y’know,” sultry eyes stare at him over the rim of her wine glass. “I paid a lot of money for this dress.”

Steve just laughs, tilting his own glass - white, not red, unlike her - toward the window, where, outside, a winter storm was pouring a miserable slush of ice and rain onto New York, with up to six inches of snow predicted, after it ended. “Tell the weather.”

“I’ve never found that all that effective.” Natasha grumbles, shifting on the couch, tucking her feet underneath her, not bothering to pull the black satin down where it slides up her thigh. 

“Then, you can hardly blame me for a cancelled date night.” he teases with that shit-eating grin she hates so much. “Can’t change the weather, ‘Tasha.” 

Not that he wants to.

He’s actually not that disappointed that the weather cancelled their regularly scheduled date night. Not that he doesn’t love a good date night, or that he didn’t have plans for the evening, but her not going out in public in that damn dress meant he didn’t have to pencil in plans to rearrange the face of any man that so much as looked at her.

She knew exactly what she was doing, too - knew what his reaction would be to that scrap of shiny black satin she was calling a dress. It hardly qualified to Steve, but he’s certainly not complaining about it.

“We could still salvage this, Captain.” oh  _God_ , he knows that tone, all too well. The last time she used that tone, they almost got arrested for public indecency and defacing government property. Apparently, Captain America having sex in the  _Captain America_ exhibit of the Smithsonian museum is still considered a defacement of government property and having his bare ass on display is not included in the ticket fare. 

“Natasha.” Steve’s reproach does little to curb Natasha’s advance.

“Look,” she pauses only to set her wine down, before she’s continuing, crawling across the length of the couch to reach him. “I paid a lot of money for this damn dress and it is  _not_ going to waste.” 

Steve can only nod, surrendering his wine easily, feeling far more helpless than any grown man should in a situation such as this. He does absently wonder if the men she seduces for information feel this way. The vulnerability that he’s not quite used to, but really, rather enjoying. He’s comfortable with Natasha, she isn’t an immediate threat to his being, and her display of power usually has an enjoyable outcome.

“What, um,” oxygen leaves his lungs in a single burst of air, hands settling on hips, as she straddles his waist and sinks down, letting him feel a decided lack of underwear. “What did you have in mind?” 

“Well,” the hard heat of him beneath her leaves her almost speechless, and definitely breathless, and combined with the delicious friction of his dress pants, it drives her almost to distraction. “I, uh,” he’s caught on to her and is distracting her with slight lifts of his hips, pressing into her just hard enough to cause a jolt of pleasure up her spine. “I thought, we could, uh…”

“Could what, Tasha?” he uses his strength to pull her down onto him before jerking her forward, causing her to whimper. “What do you want to do, Nat?” 

“I want to - I want - ” but, damn him, he made her forget. 

 _She_ is supposed to be in control here, not him, but somehow he gained the upper hand. “Want what?” Steve smirks, grinding her down onto him, harder than before, drawing whimpers . “Do you want more?”

“ _Yes.”_

Her whimper is all he needs. He doesn’t bother undoing his pants, as the cocky soldier in him is fairly certain he can get her off with a little grinding, and the right words whispered in her ear. “Move, Natasha.” Steve’s voice is soft, his large hands encouraging her to move. “You know you want to. You’re so distracted, right now, you can’t think about anything else. So, go ahead and finish.”

Something wildly inappropriate flies out of her mouth before she’s moving, desperate, hard, and recklessly. He listens to all of her little noises; the whimpers and moans and whines and gasps when the friction is almost too much.

A soft, “Come,  _Natalia_!” is all it takes. With a sharp groan, she’s trembling and seeming to melt in his arms; limbs turning to liquid, her entire body relaxed and the  _need_ that had driven her to buy this damn black dress finally sated.

That said, she’d never curse New York’s awful winter weather, again. Steve, however, does curse the price of the wine glasses he has to replace after she breaks his by accident (he’s fairly certain there was nothing accidental about it).

She considers it payback for him ripping her dress.


	20. Rated T+: Alcohol (James Barnes/Wanda Maximoff)

Wanda’s tipsy, giggling, legs for miles as she bounces unsteadily on the bed, coffee mug of champagne still in her hand. Her eyes are glassy but bright and her smile is radiant as she crooks a finger at him. “James,” hiccup, “Join me.”

“I’m already here, Doll.” despite the clarity of his diction, Bucky’s drinking, too. But, he knows his limits. Anything beyond a couple of drinks to take the edge off will have him curled up in a ball on the bed weeping. 

“No,” her lips form a pout, red lipstick smeared outside the lines, but he thinks she looks adorable. A pause in her bouncing, legs spread, one hand on a tiny hip, the other holding her cup of alcohol, face defiant and demanding. “Come bounce with me.” 

“I don’t think that bed’s big enough for both of us, Witch.” Bucky just laughs, taking a long drag from his own cup. He’s pushing it - he can tell, but he keeps going, anyway. “My metal arm weighs more than your body.” 

Wanda’s pout remains.

The truth is - and, Bucky would never admit this to anyone, hell, even to himself it was tough - he knows that if he joins her, he won’t be able to resist kissing her and that is a temptation, he can’t give into. As much as he’d like to. As much as he’d like to press her into the mattress and smudge her lipstick even more, he just  _can’t._ Because, he needs her. Really  _needs_ her and he’s just not willing to risk losing her, if he takes a chance on her returning his feelings and it turns out that she doesn’t. If he kisses her and she shoves him off and he feels like an ass for forcing something on her that she didn’t want. If she’s perfectly okay with their arrangement and doesn’t realize that he’s harboring a massive crush on her.

So, he sips his drink, and fakes indifference to her pout. But, Wanda is nothing if not a touch stubborn and before he realizes it, she’s jumped off of the bed, paused to let the sloshing champagne settle, and crashed onto the couch cushion next to him, tucking her feet underneath her. “You do not like fun?”

“I like fun, just fine, Doll.” Bucky’s gruff laugh is lighter, freer, than it would be if he was sober. He’s consistently burdened by things of the past, despite her attempts to free him of the chains shackling his mind to the things HYDRA made him do. “But, I promise you, that bed isn’t big enough for both of us.”

It is, actually.

He knows it is, because they’ve woken up together, limbs and minds tangled from the night before when nightmares plagued and the good memories wouldn’t surface.

But, again, temptation.

Twenty-four stories below them, New York City is preparing to welcome 2018 in a mere four minutes. It’ll be a cacophony of events; the crash of a mirror ball, the grand sweeping gesture of a New Year’s kiss, and the pop of a thousand or more corks to finish the night off with a drunkenness, they’ll all regret in the morning.

“It’s almost new year, Doll.” he lazily lifts his wrist, where his watch ticks away, counting down the seconds until 2018 is a minute closer than before. His head drops to the back of the couch and rolls to look at the half-drunk witch next to him, offering her a drowsy smile. “Any resolutions?” 

“No.” Wanda sinks a little further into the couch, finishing the last of her champagne in a single drag. She feels the silent prodding, the shimmering curiosity in his head, because her magic has slithered out of her control when the warm wash of alcohol calmed her flared nerves. “In Sokovia, especially in the south where I grew up, it was considered bad luck to decide what the new year would be. Instead, we celebrated the unknown. We let the year be whatever it wanted, and embraced it.” 

“Makes more sense than making up a bunch of shit you won’t hold yourself to.” his laugh is shaky, wobbling on that thin line between happy and weepy, because he really doesn’t see the point of New Year’s celebrations much less something like a resolution. 

“There is one thing I would like to make happen, this year.” Wanda smiles behind her cup, breathless and flushed, whether it’s from the three cups of champagne or from simple embarrassment, he doesn’t know, but it’s so  _damn beautiful._

“Oh yeah?” he’s falling further off of the ledge, tears burning behind drooping eyelids. “And, what’s that?” 

She drops the cup onto the carpeted floor, shifts up onto her knees, and makes her way to him. Before he can protest, she’s tossed one seemingly endless leg (so the alcohol’s messing with his vision a bit, it’s hardly a bad thing, her legs are already out of this world) across his body and settled her weight onto his lower abdomen, not that she weighs much.

“Well,” she’s leaning over him, now, a curtain of hair falling between them, silky brown curls tickling his t-shirt clad chest, while her hands rest on his shoulders. “I’d really like to kiss you, this year.”

_One minute, forty five seconds._

“Witch,” Bucky exhales. God, does he want this, but, “This is a bad idea.” 

“Why?” 

“Sweetheart, the things I’ve done…” he breathes, tears slipping out of his eyes. “I’ll never be forgiven for everything I’ve done.”

“I forgive you.” Wanda thumbs his bottom lip; he’s so full of emotion, his nerves rattle, and his mind is so loud, all she feels is vibrations, like from the music her brother enjoyed. “I forgive you, James.”

Tears soak his face.

She forgives him - her, Wanda Maximoff, aware of his every sin is still capable of forgiving him. She’s still capable of looking at him and not seeing the monster that he sees everyday in the mirror. And, maybe, it shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but to a man like James, to a man haunted by so much, to hear the woman he’s in love with say words nobody else has thought to say - it means the entire world to him. It means more to him than being an avenger ever will.

“I’m sorry,” his voice quivers as much as his chin. “I forgot how I get after I’ve had a drink.” 

“Do not apologize, James.” Wanda takes great care in brushing the tears from his face and pressing her lips to his trembling mouth, scooping him up in a tender kiss. “There is nothing to forgive.”

The kisses settle into something slow, tender, and his hands find purchase on her back. Her hands sink into his hair, tugging on the dark strands, until he’s shuddering, tugging her closer to him. The trembling and the tears eventually stop and the sudden stability of his kiss throws them both off guard but they find their way again.

Below them, the crowd is screaming  _“Happy New Year!”,_ but James and Wanda remain far too wrapped up in each other to care. The new year has brought them each other, and for him, it brought another stepping stone in the path to his recovery.

_Forgiveness._


	21. Rated E: T-Shirt (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

Few things can prepare a man for the sight of his girl, his beautiful, intelligent girl, stretched out on his bed wearing his t-shirt. Of course, every guy likes to see his significant other in his clothes; maybe, it’s the baser, more primitive possession, seeing it as territory being marked, or just simple sexual arousal, but there’s something incredibly enticing about seeing a woman in their clothes. It gives men a sense of satisfaction and pulls all blood from their brain.

Despite, his claims of being above such caveman tendencies, Jacob Stone would be a liar if he said seeing Cassie on his bed in his t-shirt didn’t send all the blood in his head directly south. Nothing vague about that direction; it was definitely headed straight for his dick, and he was definitely in trouble. Against his better judgement, he toes his boots off, and heads for the bed. Perhaps, it isn’t the best idea, but she’s just a bit tempting, and he just wants a little touch.

His fingertips trace silky skin along the lean lines of mid-calf, over the bump of her knee and along the cream silk of her thigh, up to her hip where the t-shirt hooks on his fingers and he feels the rough contrast of the lace band of her panties. A quick circle and his fingers creep higher.

His shoulders shudder with silent laughter when his fingers ghost over her side and her muscles spasm. So ticklish, Cassie. Unbidden, the feel of her ribs calls up the memory of a mere month ago, when her ribs had been painted horrifying shades of blue and purple, and breathing had been painful. Moriarty was a nasty son of a bitch and had flung her against a wall. If he’d broken anything, Jake probably would have killed the psychopath, himself. He wanted to, anyway, just for the bruises but his broken wrist from the previous clipping had barely healed and Eve reminded him, not so subtly, that anymore damage and he was looking at surgery and plates in his wrist.

Not wanting to linger in that memory anymore than he has to, Jake continues on, slipping a finger under the silk band of her bra. Matching set, maybe? Not that he cares. Cassie looks amazing in anything, he just wonders what she’s hiding under his t-shirt. Her panties are light blue, he can tell from the lace hugging her ass oh-so-perfectly and he can just see the faint trace of purple, the outline of the lipstick print pattern. He knows because he’d watched her get dressed, this morning. He’d watched with half his face still tucked in the pillow. She plucked them out of the drawer, shot him a wink and disappeared in the bathroom to get dressed for the day.

“I’m awake, you know?” soft, giggling voice, strained and tired; days of clippings and travel taking the musical quality it usually had. “Have been since you came in.”

Jake just hums, his hand slipping down to cup her breast underneath the lace. It’s soft in his hand, and her nipple hardens almost immediately, eager for his touch. A flick and her mouth opens, breath escaping in a single rush. He does it again, waiting for her to make that little whimpering noise that lets him know he’s on the right track. It only takes a couple of seconds of touching to get her shifting back into him, whimpering, almost pleading for him to do something,  _anything._

“You like that?” his teasing voice in her ear draws a vaguely irritated growl from her. Yes. She likes that. Need he even ask? His hand on her breast is pretty much always welcome, barring the few days every month when they were far too tender for even her own deft touch with a washcloth and some soap. He pinches her nipple, fingers rolling the hard flesh until she’s whimpering helplessly, grinding back into him.

“More.” Cassie gasps, hips still moving. “I want more!”

Another quiet laugh at her bossiness. Nevertheless, he complies, sliding his hand down her stomach to touch her through her panties. The lace is soaked and the slightest pressure draws a deep, warm moan from her. He rubs slow, hard circles, listening to the soft noises; little gasps, whines, and moans.

She’s just teetering on the edge of a much needed climax, when he shoves her panties aside, and sinks two fingers into her. Cassie’s synesthesia  _almost_ takes over when he’s inside of her, even if it isn’t the way she would prefer. It is  _something_ and it is needed.

The pace is absolutely brutal in the absolute best way. His fingers alternate between slow, sweet, tender, and hard, fast, and punishing. His thumb presses on that bundle of nerves in time with each movement of his fingers inside of her. “ _God,_ yes.” Cassie gasps, pushing her hips against his hand, seeking friction and  _more, more, more._

“You’re gorgeous, sweetheart.” Jake’s soft rasp in her ear combined with the curl of his fingers into that  _perfect_ spot is enough. 

With a sharp whine of relief, she lets her climax tear through her, his fingers still buried deep inside of her. It’s all liquid heat and something like everything in her body just melting. It takes a few minutes for her to come completely down from the high but when she does, she’s breathless and feels like a puddle of goo. Cassie only just feels the gentle stroke of his fingers, readjusting her panties, and soothing tattered nerve endings. She’s still sensitive and his tender touch almost causes her to fall apart again.

“One more, darlin’.”

He uses the tips of his fingers to scrape along sensitive nerves through her panties, and the length of them to rub her hard, using the roughness of the lace to his advantage. It works, bringing her up to that high again. Gentler, this time, but still powerful. “Jake!” her helpless whimper lets him know she’s gone, again.

Cassie comes down a little faster, this time, settling against him with a satisfied sigh and heavy eyes. She’s just about to drift off when Jake hears her mumble; “If this is the reward I get, I’ll wear your shirts more often.”

Jake makes a mental note to buy more t-shirts.


	22. Rated GA: Moon & Stars (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

She’s never asked for much for her birthday; actually, she’s never even asked them to acknowledge her birthday, much less give her anything, which, in itself, told a sad tale of what her childhood must have been like. While, he, himself, doesn’t like his own birthday, it’s far more to do with the nature of his family, and nothing at all to do with his parents seeing birthdays as a distraction from education.

Nevertheless, Cassie’s birthday demands to be acknowledged (rather, his not so newfound feelings for the quirky redhead demanded as such) and Jake is fairly certain, he knows of something to give her. Oh, sure, he could buy her jewelry or whatever book her lab didn’t have, that the library would probably provide her with if she asked for it, but really he’d rather give her an unforgettable experience.

Which is where Jenkins comes in.

He’s rather grumpy about it, when the plan is explained but Jake anticipates it; “Look, this Library is a maze of rooms and hallways, some of ‘em are useless. I just wanna use Cassie’s birthday to make one a little less useless.”

“Let me get this straight, for Miss Cillian’s birthday, an occasion she has expressed no desire to actually honor, you want to put the galaxy in a room of the Library?” Jenkins stares at him over the top of a book - one of those weird leather bound volumes with more pages than spine. “It would be more like Flynn to want to pull of such feat but you. You seem far more reasonable than any of the others. Is there a reason for wanting to do something this grandiose for an occasion, she has shown no interest in?”

“Well, uh, see, I just - she never - “ Jake’s stutter, his fumble for the right words, gives him away.

“You have feelings for the girl.” well, there’s been no getting out of it, then. “If I did not think she returned your feelings, you understand, I would not be so willing to use magic in such a way. I’ll need an hour to pull this off. I suggest you make other arrangements and I shall send for you when I’m ready.”

“Right.”

It isn’t until he reaches his truck, that it dawns on Jake what the keeper had told him.  _“If I did not think she returned your feelings…”_

“Whoo!” his excited fist pump almost results in a dent in the ceiling of his truck. “Yeah!”

…

“W-where are we going, Jake?”

“You’ll see in just a minute, darlin’.” Jake’s large hands squeeze her shoulders, a tender reassurance of both his presence and the impending removal of the blindfold around her head. “Jenkins?”

“All is prepared according to your plan.” Jenkins turns the knob, cracking the door just enough to peek in and double-check, before swinging it open wider to allow them entrance.

“I owe you.” Jake murmurs, reaching to shake the keeper’s hand.

“No. This is something for Miss Cillian. Make her happy, that’s all you owe me.” perhaps, it’s the knighthood of his past coming forth, or his long desire to be a father, but something makes him long for Cassie’s happiness, the way a father might seek the best for his daughter. “Miss Cillian,” a cautious hand on her shoulder, not wanting to startle her. “It is with the utmost love that I say to you, happy birthday, dear one.”

Behind the blindfold, Cassie’s eyes fill with tears, and her chin quivers; “Thank you, Jenkins.”

“Alright, sweetheart,” Jake presses a kiss into the top of her head and urges her forward. “C’mon. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Whether it was by design or simply by accident, because of the night swirling around them in shades of navy and black, the room seems wall-less and infinite, and the simple suspension bridge that will carry them across the galaxy, disappears into the darkness. The click of the door shutting behind them is Jake’s cue.

“Okay.” he slips the blindfold from her head, and leans down to whisper in her ear. “Happy Birthday, sweet girl.”

Her eyes widen in child-like wonder, mouth open in silent awe of her surroundings. Stars drip in cascades of silver, pouring into milky galaxies, twirling with their shades of pink and blue and white. Trails of stars lead into geometric constellations and a bright crescent moon lays a path of liquid silver on the suspension bridge before them.

“You can look down, if you want.” Jake suggests softly.

A careful peer over the rope reveals millions of stars, more than she could ever dream to count in her lifetime, twinkling beneath them, shifting like the current in an ocean, lifting up into a crest before melting back down.

“It’s so beautiful, Jake.” Cassie can barely breathe. “How did you do this?”

“Jenkins.” he says simply. “Keep walkin’, baby. There’s more.”

Walking along the bridge reveals Jenkins secret. The stars move, shift closer, into her line of sight, letting her see the ethereal glow and providing her with one of her own. He lets her venture a few steps head, content to watch her. The way the universe sinks silver into the red of her hair, the way her blue eyes appear glass-like, delicate and breakable, and the way she twirls in wonderment of being surrounded by something she could only ever dream of exploring.

“I’ve always wanted to see the stars up close.” Cassie’s smile is breath-taking. “Is this a dream, Jacob?”

“No, Cass.” Jake steps closer to her, reaching out to brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Just a little magic.”

“Where are we?” her arms stretch out to her sides as she twirls again, head tilted back to ensure she doesn’t miss a single thing.

Jake just laughs, catching her around the waist, and tugging her into him. “You ask too many questions.”

“I’m a scientist.” Cassie pouts, wrapping her arms around his neck. “It’s what we do.”

Leaning his forehead against hers, he takes a moment to steal a quick kiss. Or, rather, it is supposed to be quick, but the feel of his mouth on hers combines perfectly with the dream-like atmosphere and she grabs his face, before he can pull away, wanting to hold onto the moment for as long as possible.

“This is perfect, Jake.” her bright smile presses against his mouth interestingly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Cass.”

When they can finally pry themselves away from each other, Cassie drags him to the middle of the bridge, and they sit with their feet dangling into the infinity beneath them. They spend hours tracing constellations, sharing facts about how the moon and the stars influenced art and science, and Jacob is pretty sure he could listen to her talk about galaxies and space exploration for the rest of his life and be perfectly content.

He’s given her the infinite cosmos, shown her things she never thought she’d see, and she still doesn’t know his secret.

That, _she_  is his universe.


	23. Rated GA: Midnight (Eliot Spencer/Parker)

“Eliot!” 

The normally invulnerable hitter looks like a teenager being woken up for school; his face smashed rather unattractively into the pillow, dark hair, a mess of sweaty, frizzy curls, and his arms wrapped around the mass of fabric and stuffing underneath his head.

“El-i-ot!” Parker prods his large (massive, actually) bicep with her finger, short, blunt nail barely leaving a mark in the tan skin. “Eliot, wake up!” 

The one blue eye not buried in a pile of bedding opens and a vague noise of annoyance escapes him. Most people aren’t in the habit of waking a man as dangerous as Eliot Spencer, but most people aren’t Parker, either. She doesn’t really know that such a boundary exists; she simply knows what she needs and she knows what needs to be done to get it.

“Parker?” he finally thinks to lift his head from the pillow. “It’s the middle of the night. What the hell do you want?”

“I’m sniffly,” she sounds like a child; pouting and upset, because dammit, she doesn’t want to be sick. She wants to jump off of tall buildings. “And, my head hurts and my eyes are wet.” 

“Aww, Parks.” he drops his head back to the pillow and releases a tired breath. “You have a cold, darlin’. Haven’t you ever been sick before?”

“No.” 

Of course, not.

Archie probably fed her some line of bullshit about illness being all in her head or how being sick made her weak and there was no room for weakness when you’re a thief. He probably wouldn’t let her be sick, even when she actually was. He doesn’t imagine Parker knows what it’s like to be cared for as a human being, not as a tool for illegal activities.

“Okay.” Eliot sighs. He slips from the bed and reaches up to tug the hat from her head, letting her blonde hair fall around her shoulders. “Get in bed. I’m gonna go make you some chicken soup. And, none of that canned shit, either.”

Parker happily sheds a layer of clothing for the comfort Eliot’s bed, nestling in the warm impression left behind by the hitter’s body. His bed is warm and soft and she burrows into the pillows, tucking the covers under her chin in the same manner a child might.

Huh.

Her head doesn’t hurt all that much, anymore, and her eyes feel sort of heavy and she feels safe and, it couldn’t hurt to sleep for a few minutes, right?

By the time, Eliot returns to the bedroom, a bowl of soup, toast, and a glass of orange juice on a tray along with some medicine, she’s sleeping soundly. He wants desperately to be mad at her for barging into his home and waking him up because she has a cold but he knows that Parker’s probably never been allowed to be this human, to be this vulnerable.

To cuddle in a warm bed like a child and sleep.

To have a pot of warm chicken soup made just for her, to have it brought to her with all of the other sick necessities he has in his home.

Plus, it’s just  _Parker._

Despite himself, Eliot’s found he can’t stay mad at the blonde thief. For all of her crazy, she’s gone and taken a flying leap from the part of his brain that told him to keep his distance straight to his heart, where logic most certainly didn’t reside. So, he sets the tray down on the nearest surface, climbs back into bed, and tugs her feverish body close to his.

Midnight drifts lazily into early morning and Eliot sleeps on, Parker curled up in his arms, sniffling into his t-shirt.

 

 


	24. Rated T: Coffee, Vinyl & the color Red (Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov)

His phone powers off after a quick scan of his thumb print; Fury promised him a day without missions and he’s going to be held to that. It isn’t like him to cut contact with the outside world, but after a relentless week of missions, undercover dates, and not being able to see his girl, dammit, Steve Rogers needs at least one day off. His Irish Catholic roots demand it be Sunday. Sarah Rogers had been strict about Sundays being for mass and for family, usually amongst the neighboring immigrants that had adopted the military wife as one of their own. So, in keeping with tradition, he’s taking Sunday for himself.

He gets up just before the sun and a quick run puts him in the shower just as strands of gold poke through the curtains. Natasha’s touch, those curtains. He finds he doesn’t mind her little touches; her shampoo in his shower, her toothbrush in the cup with his, her coffee mug next to his by the coffee maker. Her warm body curled up next to his in his bed. This morning had been no different, and he’d had a bit of a laugh when he’d left his post pressed to her back and she’d simply burrowed further down into the covers, sighed, and slept on.

Natasha is still in her nest when he emerges from the shower and Steve’s never been one for waking people up, mostly because Bucky had told him off rather promptly, the one time he’d tried it. It’s funny how his best friend hadn’t appreciated the cold hands to the back joke as much as he had. Needless to say, a swift punch had quickly broken him of the habit and he leaves well enough alone when people are sleeping.

He drops the towel in the hamper and continues on to the kitchen, leaving Nat to wake up on her own.

…

The dark aroma of Steve’s coffee tugs at the edges of Natasha’s dream, the one with Captain America defiling things that she’s pretty sure real Cap would never think about tarnishing. She’s reluctant to let it go, but the promise of the real Steve is far better than anything her subconscious could conjure. She wants real kisses with her coffee. And, maybe, some very real sex for breakfast. Slipping from beneath the covers, Natasha scoops up his shirt from the night before, and pulls it on, before padding through the apartment to find him.

Ella Fitzgerald’s tender contralto accompanies her to the kitchen to get coffee and through the living room where she finds the French doors flung open and Steve out on his apartment’s balcony, sketchbook in hand, coffee on the table beside him, pencil carving graphite shapes on the white page. Her mug joins his before she plucks the book from his hand, and sinks into his lap, tugging his earlobe between her teeth, “Hey Soldier.”

“Hey,” his hand is large around her hip. And his other settles on her knees. “You’re up early.”

Natasha just smiles, leaning her forehead against the side of his head. His damp blonde hair smells of his favorite shampoo, the minty kind that always makes his neat cut look so soft and inviting, and when she presses a kiss to that spot just above his year, she takes a moment to revel in the velvety feel of it against her mouth.

“I had a dream about you.” she says it so simply, in such a matter-of-fact manner, that it almost seems like something she does nightly. He wonders if she does, if all of her dreams are about him. He knows they hadn’t started out that way. 

She used to dream in red. Blood spatter, the slickness of it on her hands and face. He used to have to wet a washcloth and wipe her face and hands until she was awake enough to realize it was only a nightmare. She used to scream on those nights, shriek until the neighbors pounded on the wall between them. A quick visit from Steve in his stealth uniform had put an end to that. She dreamed in red; blood and flesh and mouths open in silenced screams.

“Oh yeah?” he finally breathes, tightening his hold on her. 

“Yeah.” Natasha smiles, mouthing along his temple, down the side of his face and the clean cut of his jaw. “It was nice.” 

“What - ahem, what was it about?” Steve can barely breathe for her mouth on him. “Just, out of curiosity.” 

“Right. Curiosity.” she has to laugh a little at that. “Well, we made interesting use of your shield.” Steve chokes. Natasha tugs on his hair. “And, we had fun with all of the zippers of your uniforms.”

Steve sputters.

The latest upgrades to his spangly outfit had included some interestingly placed zippered openings. While Tony had claimed them to be strictly utilitarian, Steve also knew Stark better than that, and he knew that functional wasn’t exactly in his repertoire. Even the Iron Man armor had some superfluous, opulent additions that weren’t necessary.

“So, Captain,” it’s a dark purr; seductive and inviting and  _dangerous._ “Want me to demonstrate the rest of my dream?” 

“Yes.” 

The sketchbook is left open on the chair, the coffee grows cold, and the Ella Fitzgerald vinyl spinning on his record player plays through. Neither of them can be bothered to flip it to the B-side.

Natasha doesn’t dream in red, anymore.

But, Steve Rogers does blush a couple different shades of the fiery color.


	25. Rated M: Pancakes, Bedsheets, & Cuddles (James Barnes & Wanda Maximoff)

_“….Sherry, can you come out tonight? Why don’t you come out…”_

The fact that her head is nudged under Bucky’s pillow does nothing to deter the wail of the Jersey Boys soundtrack that he loves so much. For the most part, Wanda can understand why he likes the songs, can understand the need to feel like you have a piece of home, even when you don’t. But, one thing she will never understand is his need to blast  _Sherry_ over the apartment’s built-in speakers while he cooks. Especially at eight in the morning,  _after_ some pretty strenuous sex the night before.

With vague thoughts of murdering either Bucky’s phone, which he used to blast the infernal music, or the speakers, she pulls her head out from under the pillow, rakes a hand through her disheveled hair, and rolls out of bed. From the knot at the foot of the bed, she manages to free a sheet to wrap around herself, and trudges to the kitchen, where she’s greeted by a sight that both makes her wish she had her own cellphone and hope like hell the other Avengers never wanted Bucky to cook for them, if this is what he did.

One advantage of the layout of their apartment, the stove faced away from the door of the kitchen, so anyone cooking had their back to any intruders to the cooking space. It gave Wanda a clear view of Bucky, spatula clenched in his metal hand, hair falling his face, singing like the opener of a Vegas act, shaking his boxer-clad ass with gusto to the tune of his favorite Frankie Valli song. She barely contains her giggles, leaning against the door-frame for support. On the longer notes, the ones that get drug out for a few seconds, he makes sure to emphasize each syllable with a snap of each hip.

That just makes her laugh harder, unable to conceal the noise from him. It takes all of three seconds for his ass to stop moving, the spatula to hit the counter, and for him to spin so sharply, he should have whiplash. “Uh, mornin’ Doll.”

“Hi James.” Wanda’s barely keeping it together, and it shows when she has to bite her lip to even stop smiling. “So,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “Do you always make breakfast in this manner?”

“N-no,” Bucky flushes deep red, finger-combing his hair from his face. “No, I just - “ 

“Breathe, James.” Wanda teases, lifting the sheet from the floor to shuffle over to him. “I like watching you. You look relaxed. Free.” 

Bucky just blushes a darker red, metal hand clenching at his side, while the other brushes a strand of hair from her face. “Free, huh?”

Wanda just hums, looking up at him with those eyes. The pretty green ones that are always so calm, so intelligent, and so captivating. He can’t help but smile and reach for her, pinching the bed sheet to give her a little tug until she’s close enough for him to snatch her up into his arms, cuddling her close.

“You freed me, y’know?” he leans his forehead against hers, breathing his soft laugh that he saves just for her, when her face scrunches in confusion. “Baby doll, Stevie just helped me see the alternative.  _You_ have been the one to help me sort through the shit Hydra left in my head. You’re the one who cleared away the robot and found the human.”

“You were always human, _moja láska.”_ fingertips trail down the side of his face, eyes meeting his, matching him breath for breath, blink for blink. “You were just a wounded soldier in the wrong hands.” (Slovak; my love)

Bucky wraps a large hand around her wrist and presses his mouth into her palm for a moment. His mouth drags a warm trail down to her wrist, feeling her pulse throb, before he keeps moving, lips dragging, sucking until he’s reached her shoulder. One hand grabs blindly at his bicep, while her newly freed hand sinks into his hair, tugging at the dark strands until he’s growling something and pushing her up against the counter, metal hand grinding stone into dust (that’s going to be an awkward explanation to Stark, later).

“Pancakes…” Wanda reminds him breathlessly, when his hand - the one not currently crushing granite - is about to cup her breast through the sheet.

“Lăsați-i să ardă.” he breathes, pulling the sheet away. (Romanian; let them burn).

Her breast is soft and warm and he likes the noise she makes when he rolls her nipple under his thumb. He repeats the motion until it hardens and she’s tugging on his hair, his name on almost every breath, pleading, begging for him. Not one to deny her, anything, he tugs his boxers down just enough to fill her. There’s some sort of Slovak curse that she’ll blush about when she translates for him, later, and her hands curling around the edge of the counter, eyes closing as his hips move.

The thing with Wanda is that her high, the one screaming with ecstasy, it’s a bit different than most. It fills whatever space she’s in with magic, with power that rolls down his spine, a conflicting high of pain and pleasure, and the relief of his climax is almost too much to bear. She trembles around him, muscles clenching, whimpering as he barely muffles his groan in her shoulder.

“Let’s go back to bed, baby doll.” words spoken only after they’ve both had a few minutes to regain their collective composure, breathed into the damp hair curling against the pale column of her throat.

Bucky makes quick work of righting himself, slowly freeing himself from her, and fixing his boxers before snatching the sheet up from the ground and wrapping her up in it, once more. Her eyes are heavy with drowsiness, barely able to focus on him while he turns the stove off, and drops dirty dishes into the sink to be dealt with later. When everything is clean and all fire hazards have been dealt with, he scoops his girl up, and carries her back to bed.

“Y’know, not that I mind what just happened, but,” he shifts so she’s able to get her arms around him better. “That was supposed to be breakfast in bed.” 

“You shouldn’t play your music so loud, then.” Wanda teases, picking up what she remembers of the song, with a softer melody. “Sherry, Sherry baby…” she pauses in her singing and looks up at him. “Should I be jealous, James?”

“It’s hardly my fault there’s no song good enough for a pretty girl like you.” oh, it’s a slick line, one Steve would give him hell for if he ever found out about, but it has the desired effect.

Wanda giggles.

He never does finish those pancakes.

Nah, he’d rather cuddle with his favorite girl.

 


	26. Rated M: Red (Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov)

Natasha licks a hot stripe up the column of his throat, teeth scraping his Adam’s apple as if to insinuate she’d like to bite it. When her mouth reaches his neck, all tongue and teeth, pulse leaping beneath the skin, he cups a heavy breast, admires the way it spills so prettily out of the black satin cup of her bra. Her pale flesh is soft and pliant beneath the fabric and his fingers are soon toying with a hardened nipple, drawing her attention away from the mark she’d been so hell-bent on giving him.

“So soft, ‘Tasha.” he murmurs, lifting his head to press tender kisses into the tops of her breasts. From her position on top of him, he can feel her breath catch, can feel the sharp contraction of her muscles. Deft fingers tug on her nipple, eliciting a moan, deep and rasping. Between his fingers and his voice, she feels like she’s coming apart at the seams. “Do you like that?”

Natasha mewls.

She blushes hotly when she realizes the unflattering noise she’s made; scarlet staining her face in such a way that only serves to harden him even more. He refuses to let her be ashamed of whatever noises she wants to make, so, he lifts his hips up, grinding into her, until her hips are bearing down, forcing him back onto the bed.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of anything, Natasha,” he flattens a hand on her back and rolls him over, pressing her into the bed with his heavy warmth. “All those little sounds you make, I like them.”

Natasha’s face heats up, once more, but this time it’s not from shame, but from flattery. Most men, they’d want her to be quiet, or to talk dirty, or do something else with her mouth, but Steve isn’t most men. He wants her to be comfortable, he wants her to say what she wants, make whatever sound she feels like making.

He’s agonizingly slow about pulling her panties down her legs and undressing himself. “But,” Steve gives her that shit-eating grin, sinking into her with the same torturous pace he used to undress them. “You are beautiful when you blush.”

Natasha tries not to blush in front of the rest of the team, again. Every time she blushes, she thinks of Steve buried inside of her, telling her how beautiful she is when she does so.

It just turns her face a brighter red.

(And, makes her want to rip Steve’s clothes off.)


	27. Rated M: Bed-sheets (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

“ _Shit_ , sweetheart!”

With a breathless grunt, ego stung, but body sufficiently revved by her forceful shove, his back hits the bed and his shoulders open as he fists the sheets. Dear God. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d whispered some positively wicked things she intended to do to him when they got home, while he’d been driving. It’d taken a hell of a lot of self control (certainly more than he thought he had) to get them home in one piece.

His stretched t-shirt collar, the dent he was sure her boot had left in his bedroom door, and the fact that there’d be some wrinkles in his sheets that no amount of steam could smooth away, would all serve as beautiful reminders of just how forceful Cassie could be when she let the devilish, devious Cassandra out to play.

“Close your eyes.” her voice, so sharp and demanding, burns down his spine, pulls the blood - what little there is - from his brain, and reminds him, once again, that she is at the wheel and he is her passenger. Or, was it she had the reins and he was the horse?

Either way, he was in for a damn good time.

She’s hovering over him now, hands bracketing his head, teeth tugging at his earlobe. When he’s squirming, panting,  _wanting_ , she nuzzles against the side of his head, inhales the mint shampoo that clings to his dark hair, grins and whispers in that same commanding tone. “Now, be a good boy and _don’t move_.”

A sharp plunge of her hips.

Jacob chokes.

By the time, she’s done with him, his brand new bed sheets are wrinkled and stretched in some places, torn in others, and the shredded remains of the matching pillowcase is scattered on the floor along with the feathers from a pillow.


	28. Rated T+: Cuddles (Jacob Stone/Cassandra Cillian)

“Jake?” 

“Hmm?” Jacob grumbles, lifting his face from her hair - the sweet, lemony scented curls that tickled his mouth, but were so silky, he kind of wanted to knot his hands in it. 

She wiggles a little - good God, woman, stop - until she’s comfortably pressed tighter against him, hooking an ankle around his to tangle their legs. “Would you still be here if I was wearing pants?”

“Yes.” 

Though, he’d be hard-pressed to deny that her choice of nightwear certainly contributed to his leniency where cuddling was concerned. As a general rule, Jake appreciated distance from whoever he was sharing sleeping space. The less cuddling, the less attachment, and he’d been forced to share a one-bed hotel room with Ezekiel  _once_ , that if he hadn’t of already been almost claustrophobic in his demand of space, would have made him that way, real quick. Turns out, Jones was chaos, even in his sleep, and Jake almost needed a new kidney by sunrise.

But, Cassie was different. For one, she’s a solid, calm sleeper, and it’s far easier to sleep next to her without fear of needing transplantation of vital organs before the sun prods them from sleep. And, two, she’s not a one night stand. Though he hasn’t said it out loud, she’s a forever deal. He can’t just leave her, doesn’t want to leave her. They’ve both had enough instability to last them a lifetime each, and whatever he has with her is stable and he enjoys it too much to let it go. That said, it’s much easier to give up his personal space when she doesn’t wear more than his shirt and a scrap of lace she thinks qualifies as underwear. 

“But,” she wiggles a bit more, shifting her hips just enough to widen his eyes. “The fact that I’m only wearing your shirt and a pair of underwear…” 

“It doesn’t hurt, baby.” Jake laughs, tightening his arm around her waist. “Quit your wigglin’, Cass. Unless you want cuddles to turn into sex.” 

“Well, you’ve already admitted my nightwear is what keeps you here.” she’s teasing him - he can hear the grin, feel the flutter of silent giggles across her shoulders. 

“Shit, Cass, you’re wearing my shirt and a pair of panties, what’d you expect?” Jake gripes, but it’s all play, and they both know it. Even if he is struggling to maintain his composure with her pressed against him.“Hard to be a gentleman when you keep wigglin’, sweet girl.” 

Cassie outright giggles, now. She rolls over in his arms until she’s comfortably tucked against him, her side pressed to his front, one hand coming up to lightly scratch patterns on his chest. “If you’d like, I can go put some pants on.”

Jake’s only response is a dark growl as he rolls on top of her and pulls the covers over their heads, mouth covering her pulse. Cassie just laughs, slinging her arms around him, all affection and awe at how easily he went from cuddling to play to sex. She manages one more comment before his mouth has claimed hers.

“Or not.”


End file.
